She was leaving town, permanently with no hope of future contact (for reasons, it got complicated) so we booked a sneak-away at a local boutique hotel; did date stuff during the day, and in the evening, post sex glow, she sauntered over to her bag, pulls out a bottle of Laphroaig, pours us both a drink, and we spend the next hour plus sipping and chatting about things.
We were both naked and our conversation was equally revealing in its honesty.
We made love one last time, her lips, a smokey flavor.
Next morning, early, she grabbed a cab and refused my offer for a ride to the airport. “Here is better” she tapped my chest before kissing us goodbye. And just like that she was gone, the only things left of hers, a bottle of whiskey and the memory of great conversation.
I packed my stuff and contemplated leaving it, the bottle, but ended up packing it, and once at home, the bottle sat in my cabinet for months, untouched because of the general humdrum of life things until one evening, while getting ready to settle in, the bottle caught my eye and rewound me back to that evening, that last one with her.
I poured myself a drink, finished it, and followed it with another in her memory. Two symbolic pours, a habit developed for nostalgic occasions.
The bottle was alive about the same amount of time as we were together, and just like us, once it was done, it was done.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/c88hjw/mf_whiskey_and_great_conversations
Wow, that was deep! I love the symbolism.