So let’s dedicate this post to the first sip and how it sucks that we can never remember the last. You know the feeling, after a long day, long drive home, you open the door, the dog greets you, the girl greets you, the scent of something just about done in the oven greets you and on the table a glass of half and half with just enough condensation to let you know it’s just right. You empty your pockets on your nightstand, you ask about her day, you remove your shoes and slide into your slippers.
The glass is cool on my lips, the taste hits the buds and slowly trickles into my mouth. I let it fill and take a big gulp down my gullet. It’s not amazing, or out of this world but fuck does it feel right. It doesn’t compare to something else, it’s not something that has a ritual, it doesn’t even make sense that it should feel so good. It just does, that cold elixir fills my body and lets the nepenthe fill my veins until I forget the day’s events.
I drink one cup, followed by another, and yet one more after that. Each glass, the first sip loses it’s luster but never it’s taste. I drink ‘til the drinking hour is done and then drink one more. There’re rules to this game, but I’m making the rules up as I go. Sip another drink and this moment almost makes sense.
The first no longer has any taste and I wish I could remember the last one but if I could then the last drink would taste like the first, but somewhere in between everything feels right and the darker the rum the sweeter the mix. The sweeter the mix the easier to confuse the bitter truth from the sad reality that without the first there would be no last and that last only enables the first to exist.
So cheers, baby, for being the first but goddamn you for ruining my last.
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