With a stricken, forlorn clarity I pushed my empty cart through the aisles of Blanchard’s liquor store. Passing the golden-wrapped pillaging of liquors and hard, vile corners of vodka, I came to a bend which brought me to a cask colored wonderland. Coarse, brown wrapping and handwritten batch notes twinkled with a delicious sobriety that I had not known in months, and at that moment I yearned desperately for their fiery breath. With a straightening in my back I strolled slowly past the caramel whiskeys—both Irish and Scotch—taking in every ounce of their luster until I came abreast of my burnt honey bourbon. Sweetly, I picked up a wax tipped bottle of my bourbon and held her in my hand.
“Kiss me Matt,” she whispered, tempering her whimper with a Kentucky accent. I brought her gently to my cheek and tickled her rim with my scruff.
I placed her gingerly in my cart and began to walk when I heard a faint cry. “Wait! My sisters!” She sobbed. I turned to see a mountain of beautiful, honey brown eyes.