I wanted a Paloma tonight. At the store, I did a mental inventory and knew I had tequila at home. I get grapefruit soda and a lime. At home, I realize I am out of Herradura and have a choice of Cuervo or Padron. I opt for the Padron.
Padron is good. The silver is okay. It is what you drink when you have moved past the Cuervo you drank in college.
Cocktail in hand I move to the porch to enjoy my drink. It is meh. It lacks the smoothness of Herradura to me.
I have an FWB whose taste in women is always questionable. He loves women who look rode hard and put away wet or who have a lived-in look. The cheaper they look the more he likes them. I asked him recently why he likes me since I am not his usual go to.
“You are like the good bottle. The one you hide when company comes because you don’t want them drinking your $100 bottle of whiskey when they are just as happy with a $25 bottle of whiskey. I can’t afford to drink $100 bottles all the time though.”
I laughed at the assessment and asked what the hell that meant about me.
“If I partook of you more often then I would need you more in other ways. You are the gift I allow myself on occasion.”
He kissed my forehead quickly and went to the bathroom to shower. While he washed away the awkwardness of the confession I let a tear or two fall.
Being his top shelf is safer for us both.