Then he sat across from me.
I watched him drink.
And for the first time in thirty-five years, I didn’t.
I watched him carefully.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“The drink.”
His smile faded slightly.
“What about it?”
“I think I want to know what’s actually in it.”
Victor placed his glass on the table.
“You’ve had thirty-five years to ask.”
“I did ask.”
“You asked casually.”
“And you never answered.”
He looked down.
“I thought you didn’t want to know.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because it sounded less like an answer…
and more like an apology.
That night, after Victor went to bed, I went into the kitchen.
I stood beneath the cupboard.
The bottle was there.
The same dark glass.
The same old cork.
I reached for it.
My hand was shaking.
I didn’t know what I expected to find.
