You slur more with each shot. The taste is cold, heavy; thick as it sits on the brim of the esophagus. I swallow to not slur. The taste teases your taste buds, boomerangs from the back of your throat to the tip of your tongue. Your drool dribbles nonsense. Your saliva lengthens to thin puppet strings. I’m afraid to change the subject. You order small appetizers. I sit back...
Taste Me
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