And every night at nine, he wanted us to sit together for a few minutes.
So I assumed the drink was simply part of his strange little way of keeping us connected.
The first time I asked him what was in it, he laughed.
“Something you’ll never guess.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
Victor smiled and lifted his glass.
“Only a drink.”
Then he took a sip.
I did the same.
It tasted bitter.
Not unpleasant exactly.
Just unusual.
There was something earthy about it, followed by a faint metallic taste that lingered on my tongue.
I remember making a face.
Victor laughed.
“You’ll get used to it.”
Thirty-five years later, I still hadn’t.
But somehow, I had stopped noticing.
Or perhaps I had simply stopped questioning it.
Life has a strange way of turning unusual things into ordinary things.
