There's a longing and a sadness as deep and whispery as holding a shell to the ear.
The glass on the nightstand is a cathedral of taste: the warm whiskey notes buoyant and bright against the more structural spices of the mary mix. Bourbon Mary: the deep south sweetheart not nearly as pure as vodka and just sassy enough to lean against the sides of the glass and keep company with the celery. Good drinks come in threes, and this one? This one stays lukewarm and held fast against the wood, the lips, the snort of fire in the back of the throat. Third one's the charm, the charred, the charitable forgiveness steeped in the small promise of blacking out.
Out there, in the rest of the night, the solitude rustles, brushing up against the sides of the room.