#self-depreciating

"Name your poison," she said, taking the bill. I shook my head, gave a little shug as I looked past her, at the rows of optics and bottles.

"Cheapest, strongest anything you got," I said with another little shrug.

She gave me a long look, head tilted and frowning, letting the light shimmer off tawny skin.

"Seems like maybe I should get you a coffee, sister," she said at length.

"Rum is fine."

She drew back and looked down at me in consideration. "You sure, honey?"

I sucked my teeth. "I came for a drink, not talk. I'm sure."

"Alright then," she said in a tone that left no doubt she was someone's momma, and turned away.

I stared vacantly at the wood grain at the back of the bar until a new glass landed in front of me, and I swapped my attention from the amber varnish to the amber liquor.

The ethyl vapors caught me first, as I gently twisted the glass between my idle fingers. Sharp, sweet, and yet somehow offensive, they assaulted my nose, making the lining tingle and curl. I raised the glass. Most folk just throw their liquor on back, don't even taste it, just want the bitter, incriminating burn lacing their throat. I took a sip, savoured the pain on my tongue, washed it round like mouthwash and blasted my nostrils from the other side. Just as it was too much, I swallowed, letting the sweet-sharp ethers trickle down my throat. Doesn't burn so much, maybe, but warms a body like shame and goes down just like the bitterness of regret.

"Y'know, sister," said the barmaid from a short distance away, "I ain't sure I ever seen someone drink their liquor like it was medicine."

I lowered my head and smiled at the bar-top, hands still clutching the glass like a man to a life preserver. "Might be, sister, cuz very few folks like the taste of their own heartbreak. It's called 'drowning y'sorrows' for a reason. See, most folk drink to forget, to find oblivion. I drink to remember."

"And what're you remembering?" 

I looked over to see she'd drifted closer.

"Lotta of things. But mostly so I knows not to make the same fool-ass mistakes on the next go-around."

She pulled a face. "Doesn't sound so great to me."

I smiled, considering the swirling dregs. "Maybe so. But, see, here's the thing of it. It might taste like sorrow, it might sting like regret and give a flush like shame, but the moment it hits your veins it starts to sing." I put the glass down, and she poured me another, shaking her head when I put another five on the counter.

"It sings, huh?"

"For sure, for sure." I smiled again, staring wistfully at the amber. "It sings like hope. I dunno how else to say it, sister. It's like the sweetest harmony, racing over your skin, promising tomorrow will be brighter. That things ain't as bad as they is."

She looked doubtfully at the bottle in her hand. "You get all that from rum?"