Cool Comfort

Pick it up.
Put it on the table, back where it belongs.
Get the cloth, wipe the floor, wring it out, hang it up and start again.
It's just a glass. No big deal.
Millions of grains of sand fired into liquid molten lava, compressed, blown, turned, shaped.
Cooled, polished, delivered.
Destroyed.
It's just a glass. A flimsy, delicate vessel entirely unsuited to the task at hand.
You need the bottle.
Amber hued or olive green. Half an inch thick. Weighty as you wield it in your hand like a weapon. Tilt the head back, grasping the neck as if to strangle the liquid out of it.
Pouring, elbow raised, eyes closed, mouth open.
This is no time for decorum.
Decency has left the building.
Drink, drink, drink
To the last drop then let it roll
Off the fingers, an extension of bone and skin
Cool comfort.


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