Me the Drink

I swirl around the ice at the bottom of the glass, slowly eroding it, taking it into myself. I share the cold of the cubes with the wall that contains me. Chilled, it draws dew from the air onto itself. Occasionally a few droplets coalesce and slide erratically to the table to join others in a minute puddle.

When you lift the glass to look into me, through me, I know that where I and the water and the ice meet you see distortions, but I wonder what else. At each point where your fingers touch warmth sifts through the glass to help me melt the ice a little quicker.

Molecules of me escape into the air and you breath them in accidentally, then deliberately. You slow blink tells me you find my scent pleasant, though I do not know why.

Finally, a raise and a tilt and I meet your lips. I flow through them and into your mouth. Warmed, my scent fills you nose, the alcohol in me burns your tongue in that peculiar way, and my burn will warm you, deceptively, all the way down your throat and into your stomach.

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