(I am a creature of habit. I write on a schedule – even if I do not know
what I am about to write. I get up every
morning and, with that first cup of coffee, pound on my computer.
The
other morning, I was forced to reinstall the computer; my grandson or my
daughter visited a site they shouldn’t have and the laptop started acting like
it was swimming in molasses. This,
needless to say, impinged on my work time.
I filled it, while I waited for Norton and Office and whatever updates
Microsoft insists I needed, by doodling in my notebook. The piece that follows wriggled to the
surface without any pre-planning. I like
it for its brevity and its tone.)
▬▬▬▬
The Martini, Extra-Dry
My doctor suggested that I stop drinking as part of his
post-physical comments. I invited him
home for dinner – I am quite the imaginative cook – and made us both a Martini
to whet his appetite and to introduce him to a more reasoned, evening routine. There is nothing more civilized that a
chilled Martini at the end of a long day.
My doctor passed away soon afterwards. Cardiac dysrhythmias. It was quite unexpected. It took his wife and family completely by
surprise when they received the call. He
was only – if I had to guess – forty-something.
Fit, forty-something and dead.
The Martini is a classic drink, one that has withstood
the ravages of time. It is not easy to
make and must be served in the appropriate glass with sufficient preparation to
honor the drink. Do you see how I have
frosted our glasses? And the olives, three each, carefully pierced through the
center with silver skewers. I do not
abide anything stuffed into the olive.
Nothing extraneous should be added to the liquor. Just a hint of brine to compliment the gin.
I find salt heightens a great many sensations. I have been watching the tiniest droplet of
sweat gliding down your delicate neck. I
don’t know if you can even feel it but it is enchanting. I have an almost irresistible urge to kiss
you. To kiss your neck. It is not the salt that makes me want to do
that – that is all you, by the way – but that hint of salt, the thought of that
special taste, magnifies the experience.
See what I mean?
You are quite beautiful.
I am sure you aware of your beauty; you must see it every morning in the
mirror and men – myself included – cannot help mentioning it. It is the nature of human beings to
appreciate beauty.
Don’t get me wrong.
This is not some tawdry attempt at seduction. I do not enjoy pick-up lines. Look around you…I prize beauty. I collect books and old records, mostly
classical compositions, and art. Small
pieces. Little sculptures. Little porcelain pieces that are so
incredibly delicate that you crave touching them but fear breaking them at the
same time. Their fragility makes
them…well, I guess you could say…exciting.
I find holding them positively arousing.
But, enough of me and my things. The Martinis are done. I have taken extraordinary pains with
yours. My doctor would claim I am being
cavalier with our health but he is not here.
I do not mean to be insolent, but his absence speaks volumes. If you ask me, there are quantitative
benefits to the occasional vice. I do
believe they have extended my life. Would
you like to try it now or should we retire to the bedroom? I have never been a particularly doctrinaire
host; you are so beautiful I would gladly forego my favorite addiction…or, at
least, delay it until later.
The choice is yours.
I am your servant.
I understand completely: the drink.
It would be an absolute shame to
waste such a perfect Martini.
