then sinks into it.
He’s sitting so close, his knee bumps mine.
I look down into the drink, the cherry red.
“You’re not drinking?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder with a small head shake.
“Nah. I don't drink where I work.”
I lean forward,
wrapping my hands around the glass,
and inhale the first steady breath all night.
When I lift my eyes,
his are already on me,
his elbow resting on the arm of the chair,
finger at his mouth, brushing across his lip.
We’ve both forgotten how to speak,
and neither of us mind.
We stay, eyes chained to each other.
Then I sip from the glass,
and the heat flares down my throat.
It’s warm and bittersweet.
Cherries and dark chocolate.
“What’s this called?”
“Depends," he says behind his fingers.
My voice peaks. “Depends?”
His fingers tap once against the armrest,
then stop.
“It’s got two names dependin’ on the night.”
He wets his bottom lip?—
“Amara Mezzanotte and Mezzanotte Amata.”
My brow lifts. “Your recipe?”
He glances off, shifting in his chair before his eyes return to mine. “Needed somethin' that tastes like you but leaves an afterburn.”
