It reminds me of the cruise I took once. The one I booked when my tax refund hit and I was sick of everyone telling me to invest in my future.
I invested in me instead.
And on that ship, on the top deck bar where the bartenders wore suspenders, and the menus had curated sections, I ordered a smoked Old Fashioned.
Thirty-five dollars for one drink. No joke.
They brought it in a glass cloche—smoke still swirling inside like some kind of wizard’s secret.
Lifted the dome slow.
Let it escape in a single ghostly curl.
It smelled just like this.
Warm. Expensive.
Slightly dangerous, but in the way that makes you sit up straighter and pay attention.
I took a sip and felt it all the way down.
Like fire wrapped in velvet.
That’s what this air feels like now.
Like fire that’s learned how to touch gently.
Like warmth that doesn’t demand anything from you—just offers itself, waiting.
I smile, stretch, sink deeper into the bed and the impossibly soft, silky sheets—and I freeze.
I don’t own silk sheets.
My eyes snap open.
Black fabric gleams beneath my fingers, smooth as water, warm as skin. The bed is too wide. Too solid.
The ceiling above me is black stone—obsidian maybe—carved and arching, threaded with veins of something faintly glowing like banked embers.
I bolt upright. The sheet falls, and I gasp and grab it tightly to me.
Okay.
I’m naked.
And holy shit, I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore, Toto.
This is not my ambulance.
This is not an ER.
This is not my apartment in Jersey City with the leaky radiator and the neighbor who plays reggaeton at 2 a.m.
Not that I complain, because I too am an El Tigre fan.
My heart slams into my throat as memory comes roaring back.
Fire.
