She learned about martinis from her father.
Monsters he called them.
Give me another monster.
He insisted that they be served so cold that the chips of ice were still dissolving as you lifted it for the first cleansing sip.
If it isn’t cold, you’re just drinking a big glass of warm gin.
She holds the stem and lifts the glass to her mouth.
Not cold enough.
Doesn’t matter.
She takes two big swallows.
She can feel the white heat traveling down and down, across her chest, into her stomach.
The tension loosens.
“Another?” asks the barman.
“Please. But colder.”
