Last Call

You’re my one last drink.
The one I’m always debating to have.
The one I know will relinquish my inhibitions; confessions will pour like smooth, oak infused bourbon with notes of vanilla into an old-fashioned, rock cut glass.

Oh how I enjoy the heat that penetrates as I swallow.
Licking the remnants of liquid from the corners of my mouth; sucking the sweetness off my bottom lip.
My buzz, bigger than a honeybee’s.

You’re the drink that gets me drunk.
The one that makes me forget I’m a forty-two year old mom of three.
The one that makes me remember what falling in love feels like.
My happily ever after hangover.

The froth on the top of a beer that I immerse my finger in and taste.
That’s you.
A full bodied beer straight out of the tap.
Craft not domestic.

Not a shot of tequila, the whole margarita.
Cabernet sauvignon swirled in the bowl of my glass as I pinch the stem between my fingers and thumb.
I inhale the aroma and savor every sip, because you’re my one last drink.