Chapter Text
At the beginning of our first date, I
ordered champagne that cost the king’s ransom.
His brittle, imperious spine stood tall—
as rigid as his delicate glass flute.
He called the bottle compensatory.
At the end of our first date he brought me
through a middling whisky to drink in bed
and rolled his eyes as I judged it a test
to see whether I would still be here come
daylight, if I could stand to share a bed
with a man who had subpar taste in scotch.
And afterwards, his spine relaxed, curled up
as he plastered himself to my body
and I stopped thinking of compensation
or tests and instead remembered how the
taste of that earlier fine champagne on
his lips made me feel drunker than six straight
martinis comprised of three measures of
Gordon's and one of vodka, of half a
measure of Kina Lillet (which is not
vermouth), shaken well until it is as
ice cold as she was in a Venetian
canal, then garnished with a large slice of
lemon peel, as lip-suckingly bitter
as she was sweet in bed that morning.