He never left it anywhere else.
Not on the counter.
Not in the refrigerator.
Not even in the lower cabinet where the other drinks were kept.
It always went back to that same high shelf.
Then Victor would place two small glasses on the table.
He would pour the dark liquid into mine first.
Then his.
And he would sit across from me.
“To another day,” he would say.
That was all.
No explanation.
No toast to birthdays or anniversaries.
No special occasion.
Just two glasses.
Every night.
When we were newly married, I found it charming.
Victor was never the kind of man who made grand romantic gestures.
He wasn’t a poet.
He didn’t buy flowers every Friday.
He wasn’t the type to write long love letters.
But he remembered small things.
He remembered how I liked my coffee.
He knew which side of the bed I preferred.
He knew I hated sleeping with the bedroom door completely closed.
