Cognac

Lucy Rose Williams

My glass is taken around the corner to be warmed, and brought back to the bar. The bottle is tipped on its head with the nozzle pointing deep into the glass, and held like a chef would drizzling olive oil into a dish, pulling it away sharply as soon as they are happy with it. Quick and controlled.

I hand the money over and once I let go of the cold coins I’m rewarded with the warm glass against my chapped skin. I handle it as though it were a crystal ball, with its bulbous bottom in the soft palm of my hands. I feel the muscles in my hands relax. As I hover the drink under my nose, and circle it in the air, the solitary ice cube spins like a soap sud being sucked down and around over a plug hole, quickly melting into the warm amber.

This drink always looks…

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