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.”

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