cocktails

There’s a strong temptation to indulge every time I get to see you, be that food, fatality or another f-word. You lead a life that is still very mysterious to me so I treasure the time I get.

We don’t always go to town, though. I can tell you’ve had a lot on your mind recently and, well, so have I. So when you invite me over today I bring a carrier bag that clinks.

“Cocktails,” I intone, solemn in the doorway.

Your expression flickers via amusement to that same stony somberness. “Cocktails.”

Thus do we begin cocktails.

Though one carrier bag contains bottles, the other brings two hearty mushroom lasagnas in glass tupperwares. I set these heating while you assemble the raft of bottles we might draw from.

When I see you handling a bottle of Lamb’s navy rum, I break into our chit-chat with, “My grandad knew one cocktail, which he learned in Germany and drank for the rest of his life. Are you ready for the recipe?”

You nod, your smile wry. God, to see you there in your kitchen: how much you have gained… The casual T-shirt can’t hide your wonderful curves, and those habitual leggings only cup and accentuate your richly generous calves and thighs. You spy me staring and make a gesture. “The recipe?”

“Hm? Oh—yes. The recipe. It proceeds thus: rum, and then coke. Got that?”

“I think I’ve heard of it before,” you allow, twisting the top off the bottle. “Want one?”

“Please.”

We drink and we talk. I sing at one point, and encourage you to join in. I bet, just bet, you’d refuse: but after we’ve known one another for months and I’d seen you at your worst and best, would you find it easier to join in?

You show me interesting things to do with rum. I take it all in but here’s a secret: next time I will pretend to have forgot important steps, or ask about cocktails I don’t already know. I just love watching you make them. You take quiet pride in your skills. You’re inventive and uninhibited. And when you hand me something you’ve just made, I feel like the most special man on earth.

When the lasagnas are ready you sit on my lap and I feed you forkful over forkful. My thighs go numb after five minutes but I would not miss this for the world. You reminisce about something important to you in between mouthfuls, speaking with your mouth full. I try to keep pace, pretending not to be wholly distracted by the way your throat bobs, or the increasingly loud sounds of digestion from the belly squashed lovingly against me.

By the time you’ve finished both lasagnas and your seventh cocktail you’re giggly and a little sleepy. We roll our way into your living room and huddle in front of the television with a weighted blanket over both our shoulders. You show me a section of the game you’ve been playing recently and then we play a little Sonic Origins together.

We both slip into sleep without too much fuss, wrapped up in one another’s arms. We’re both so drunk that I fail to worry when you nuzzle in close to my neck, but then, you’re so drunk that you fall to bite. A mushroomy burp signals that you are falling back asleep. I stroke your back and follow you.

I will always follow you.