The Cure For All Ills
Flicka von Hannover
Whiskey.
The answer is always whiskey.
That morning while Flicka was at work, the free clinic called and left a message detailing Flicka’s clean bill of health, the phone number of a counseling hotline, and reminding her about the big bowl of condoms right beside their front door, where she could just stick her head in andgrab a handful any time she wanted.
When they got home that night, Flicka slammed a bottle of Irish whiskey in the center of the small dining table.
A few feet away in the living room, Dieter and Alina jumped. The startled toddler started crying, and Dieter whisked her up in his arms and over his shoulder, where she clutched his neck with her chubby arms and subsided to hiccups.
Flicka heldup her hands. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.”
“She’s fine. Teaches character.” He patted the baby’s back and jutted his chin toward the table in the little dining area. “Whiskey?”
“Yep,” Flicka said. “As far as I’m concerned, whiskey is the cure for all ills. Mix it with lemon and honey for a cold. Put a little on a cotton ball for a toothache.”
Dieter raised one dark blond eyebrow at her whilehe patted Alina’s back. “Did you learn that from the nurse at that boarding school you went to?”
Flicka ignored him. “And when something scares you, tie one on and face your fears. It’s liquid courage.”
Dieter paused for a moment, patting Alina’s back. The toddler had forgotten that she had been scared and was running her palm over the short, velvety hair on the back of Dieter’s head. He said,without cracking even the slightest smile, “Alina needs her supper before I tuck her into bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
Flicka unpacked the food she had brought home along with the whiskey bottle, and Dieter did an impressive job of getting Alina to eat a decent but quick supper in the correct proportions. Afterward, splashes and giggling echoed down the short staircase, indicating he bathedher, brushed her teeth, and tucked her into bed. He stepped down the stairs twenty-three minutes later, his shirt sleeves still rolled up to his elbows.
The faint scent of baby shampoo drifted through the air.
Flicka raised her small glass of diluted whiskey. “I started without you.”
The whiskey was sweet, almost honey-like, in her mouth.
“I’ll catch up. Pour me a strong one.” This time, hegrinned. The smile reached his gray eyes, turning them almost silvery.
Flicka tipped the bottle over the other glass and filled it. “I filched it from the bartender. He hides the good stuff, takes some, and then waters down what’s left. I rescued this bottle before he committed the abomination.”
Dieter sipped some of the whiskey, and his eyes lit up. “This is nice. I like smooth whiskeys.”
“It’s a Bushmills 10 Single Malt. Highly underrated.”
He sucked a larger sip.
“Be careful,” she told him. “It’s considered ‘dangerously drinkable,’ and one of us shouldn’t be smashed.”
He turned the glass in the light emanating from the overhead fixture. Beams glimmered through the amber whiskey. “How smashed are you planning to get?”
“As smashed as it takes.”
He shook his head a little, andhis lips thinned. “You know I have a thing about people being too smashed.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I meant, you. I have a thing aboutwomenbeing too smashed.”
Flicka tossed the whiskey into her mouth and swallowed it down. The fumes in her nose smelled almost like yellow wildflowers. “Right now, I hereby consent to anything. Do whatever you want to me. Make me get over this.”
He shook hishead. “Being shagged while you’re passed-out drunk isn’t going to help you.”
