“Malt Scotch”

‘Malt Scotch, please, young man;
no rocks, just a splash
of water. Thanks.’

Somebody once said,
if you really want to know
a person’s character, ask them
what they’d like to drink.

With that in mind
one smooth, bluesy evening,
a guy asked a barman
for the self-same thing.

He won’t accept a glass of piss
for what a Scotch is meant to be,
nor will he pollute it with ice.

‘Here you go Sir. That’ll be –’

A freshly-pressed tenner is displayed,
interrupting the young barman.
‘Keep the change.’

He held the glass
in a proud, yet gentle
manner; his baby finger
supporting its base
to keep its frail body
from falling.

He didn’t drink it straight away.
He noticed the label on the bottle
as the drink was being prepared for him.
A twenty-four year old Scotch
deserves some respect.

He glanced at tonight’s entertainment.
A woman. She sang the Blues,
dubbed by two shadows in the background.

With the screaming silence
of her saxophone he watched
the girl end her song.

The glass elevated to his lips
and he took the first sip.

Yes, that was as good as it gets.

First, a tingling
at the tip of his tongue
and the roof of his mouth,
teasing like a feather.

Then, the texture;
mature and sticky,
yet exploratory -
combing his taste buds.

Finally, the spiciness;
irritating, but addictive,
as if somebody put out
a cigarette on his tongue.

With another sip of his drink,
he slithered the restaurant’s corridors;
he kept his eyes on the girl.

He ignored the lady
with a dead fox
around her neck.
Death is the new black.

He ignored the man
that wore sunglasses
in a candlelit room.

He ignored the cliché,
red-dress of a woman
smoking a kebab cigarette.

He ignored the double
chinned man that flirted
with tonight’s specials.

He kept his eyes on the girl.

She was still fiddling
with her saxophone.
Her blues-playing
fingers stroked
all the bits and bobs
with such professionalism.

Her smoky, malted eyes
pierced the instrument,
searching for a false note.
She couldn’t find it.
Her solo was perfect.

Satisfied, she set the saxophone
aside. She stood up
and only then did she notice
the man, just twenty-four
feet away from her.

She looked at his suit.
There was no label on it.

She looked into his eyes
as he halted before her.

She glanced down
at the drink he was holding.

He noticed the distilled smile
that accented the corners of her lips.

He took a sip...

Nathan Bednarek 2009.