A Storyby James Silberstein
Chris spent the afternoon before his date with Paige researching whiskey on the Internet. He was thirty-three, the age Christ died, and thought he needed, among other things, a signature drink.
“How would you describe it?” Paige asked about the taste of the Scotch.
It tasted like burning Band-Aids, but in hopes of impressing her he quoted the website he’d read. “It’s like lighting a fire in a damp place.”
She stopped midswig of pinot grigio. “Sounds like sex.”