“You might wanna slow down…”

I opened my eyes to the watercolor painting-esque figure meeting me at the bottom of my bourbon glass just before the oversized ice cubes crashed into the tip of my nose. The wavy apparition looked concerned. I swallowed the last smokey drop.

“The point of the ice is to sip your drink. You know, enjoy it”, the figure nagged.

I put down the glass with triumphant force as I politely wiped the remaining whiskey from my upper lip with the sleeve of my flannel. (Because I am a lady). The judgey bartender glanced over upon the thud of my quickly (impressively) emptied glass against the cherry wood bar top and quickly collected the glass, shaking his man bun side to side as he wordlessly refilled it, noticeably lighter on the rocks. I hoped the physical commentary wouldn’t shake his long, well groomed beard hairs into my drink. But appreciated that he didn’t bother asking the obvious.

….to be continued….

 

 

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