I know he started with gin, but I have no idea what went into the glass after that. Something dark and thick from a long bottle, another liquid shot out of a squeeze-bottle, and did he just crack an egg? It all went in, not in a blur but(more) in a graceful choreography. Pour, splash, stir, change, make. At the finish he capillaried a taste out of a tiny straw, and it was good. Whatever balance he had intended, he'd acheived. And I had the drink I'd ordered.
The other bartenders were no different here, making their orchestrated motions against a curtain of backlit bottles. I looked down the warped wood of the bar, the eccentric paintings on the walls, and the glassware so careless and mismatched that it instantly gave away the hip young curator who had chosen every piece.
My dad came in and sat next to me. He ordered a scotch and soda, which must have bored the bartender; he didn't even bother to taste-test the finished product. Dad scanned the bottles behind the bar and I joined him, not talking. Finally, he asked, "Do you think they actually use those, or are they just decoration?"
I didn't even have time to shrug before the bartender pulled out a folio in a leather case. "This is the bottle list. They're not all up there, but some of them are."
We perused a list of bottles ranging from $75 to $150, eventually realizing that these prices were for a two-ounce pour. My dad closed the book and slid it back across the bar. "Let's go to a real bar," he said discretely. I knew what he meant, so I didn't argue.
Still, though, whatever aesthetic they were going for in that bar, they were clearly nailing it.(less)
Let's turn our endless days into endless nights, crossing the bridge of friendship into the land of blurred lines, where you and I can lie and lay and kiss and miss. And then, when we wake from our dreaming, go home with a smile in our hearts. Best of(more) friends first, lovers a damn close second.(less)
I am anything but deft. I feel like I used to be, yet, I feel like I never have been. I feel like a liar. I feel like I try to hard to be something I will never be. I feel pathetic. I feel useless. I feel like a(more) burden. I feel like everything bad, and nothing good. I am the worst of the terrible. The best at being bad at everything. I cant do anything right, ever. I dont know why, when it started, or what to do. But i am horrible.(less)
It would be cliche if I said it was magical, but it wasn't. It would be cliche if I could say your fingers had been sure and smart and deft. It would be cliche if I could say I'd whispered the right things in your ear and against your(more) lips.
But I can't.
Because your soft, warm hands fumbled all over me and my words fumbled over my tongue, which, incidentally, didn't know what to do with yours because my mouth wasn't big enough for two tongues.
I wish I could have said we were good at it, but we weren't. You said the wrong things and I said too much and you touched too much and I wish I had touched more.
I wish I could blush and be a cliche because cliches come with endings, and usually they're happy, unless they're monumentally sad, but at least the ending comes, unlike us, because we don't seem to have an ending, we just drag on and on and take turns being hopeful but never at the same time.(less)