She shook the high-ball glass around in back-and-forth circles, swirling the brown water in tiny whirlpools. She inhaled the scent with a deep breath and thought of ice keeping the fruit warm in the winter. She placed the glass on the counter and sighed, moving her finger around the glass’s lip, gently, intimately, with reminiscence. Apple juice just isn’t quite the same as whiskey. Bourbon whiskey. But she had quit the Brown Water Society long, long ago. The seduction was still in her bones and even when she tried to play make believe with apple juice, that primeval lust grew within her like a demon child, sucking her life and displacing her soul. What could she do? She watched her phone like a teenage girl waiting for a call from the boy she first thought she loved, and thus slept with. It was dark. The phone. Like a dead street lamp at the neighborhood park. He hadn’t said he would call, but he hadn’t said he would kiss her either. Particularly since they were married, with children. Not to each other. But Eros, that pudgy ass-hat god, shoots his arrows where he wills and then it’s only the ticking of time and circumstance. He hadn’t said he would call. But hotel rooms are lonely, when you’re alone. She nearly dropped her juice drink when the phone rang out loud, bright in the silent dark room. It was her husband, calling to say good-night no doubt. So sweet. She didn’t answer. She continued to swirl the juice around in her glass and continued to watch the dark phone lie dead on the table. He hadn’t said he would call but hope is just as seductive as lust. Her keys jangled when she grabbed them, leaving her phone behind, starting the car to drive to the nearest liquor store. Enough was enough. She sped from the hotel to the store and back, not for the phone but for the Michter’s. There was a missed call when she returned. From him. No voicemail. She removed the battery from the phone, tossed it across the room and poured her first drink of bourbon in two decades. She swirled it again, and inhaled the sweet scent again, and smiled. So much better than apple juice. Even the scent felt warm. She woke late the next morning with a jarring headache behind her eyes, pain pounding again and again against them like multiple jack-hammers. She put the battery back in her phone to call her husband and apologize for missing his call, tell him she was on her way home. Her phone rang. It was him*. She sighed and poured a late morning drink. She answered and said, Hi.

* – Yes, ‘It was he’ is correct, but him makes more sense in this context. I.e. – wrong. (but it sounds/feels right)