He drops three ice-cubes in his glass. They tinkle. A tinkle that announces a tipple. A sound that arouses your tongue. He then – like a chemist- fleetingly waits at the ice cubes to mist up the glass.
Even though the music is loud, and the bustle swirls all around, there is an inexplicable silence borne from the deliberate way with which he goes about mixing his drink. It’s almost ritualistic. Sacred.
The clock ticks away as he stares at his drink. I regard him. He’s shaven inches away from his skull, his scalp is oiled. The greenish light from the overhead lights bounce off his skull in a shard of rainbow. He’s in a white dress-shirt, un-tucked over blue jeans. On the wrist gleams a watch I wouldn’t wear if you threatened me with hair loss. Not that there is much left to lose. Loafers step on the rail that run along the edge of the bar. He’s neat, too neat. Like he’s hiding a flaw. Most very neat people are hiding something. Those guys who move around with a comp in their cars. Or cologne. They are hiding something with those layers and layers of impeccable self-grooming.
Now he lifts the other glass containing the double of the greenish gold liquid, and as he tilts the glass slowly, the liquid’s viscosity shifts and surrenders to the pour. The ice immediately gets wet. Then they sigh, as if they have been released from their own prison of longing. John Jameson, would be proud.
“I love that song,” he now turns to tell me, ...... Read the entire article