Banished by single malt

Margarita returned. She had "excused" herself temporarily, and was now waiting only for me to do the same. A trade in the discipline of human material, if you will.

I had slept fitfully in her absence, my doze broken by neck tensions, clenched hands. The inadvertent hunger tugged at the inner reaches of my gut and - in thinking of her - my thigh...

My throat was beginning to rasp, the nascent itch of a cold. I turned to the barman and ordered some more single malt - one for myself and one for her.

"Of course, I didn't ask for the whiskey," she said, as the glass was settled onto a paper mat in front of her.

"You must drink it"

Margarita leaned down toward the glass and snatched at the amber with her nose. The tips at the crescent of her mouth unfolded, and the scowl of scrutiny gave way to an intrigued smile. She put her hand out to the glass and slapped her hand over the rim. She brought the other hand close, and in a swift turn of the wrist, cupped both together. Bringing the hollow of her closed palms to her face, she pulled her hands apart and, eyes clamped shut, drew in the vapour.

The intoxication was immediate. Her eyes glistened, focusing at a point several feet beyond my face. Her head began to loll forward, jerk back up and roll from side to side. She pressed a hand to my nape and drew me close to where her other hand wsa touching the bar. With the wandering fingertip, she traced out an appeal:

"I-a-m d-r-u-n-k, a-n-d t-i-r-e-d, s-o y-o-u m-u-s-t w-a-k-e u-p n-o-w."

Saddened, I raised my head to look back up at her, but by now she had begun to fade. The glow of her red nail was the last light to vanish.