v12-final1

A Drink With Death
By Kelly McCoy
The large pane window displayed an ugly scene through the
backward yellow letters spelling out Sunday’s Finest Tavern.
Snow and sleet had been mixing in the dirty street for over
an hour. It was a quarter till ten on a Sunday and the world
seemed abandoned, other than the presence of a disinterested single bar
tender at the far end of the bar.
Sitting in the same seat that I had occupied far too often on a
weekday night over the last few months, I found myself at odds to the
bartender; he on one side, and I on the far opposite. I was on the far end of
the mirror behind the bar. Though it seemed to be my seat of reflection,
I could only see half of myself. It was a seat where anyone could have a
conversation with themselves and no one would care.
The bar was different that night; weather had kept the rest of the
regulars at home. The Islay scotch before me was the same. The smoky
robust peatiness reminded me of the putrid taste in my soul. Through
my self-loathing it had been my choice drink, but it had lost its taste over
a month ago. It was no longer enjoyment or taste I sought; it was a prescription
of pain relief turned punishment that hit the soul hard with every sip.
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