Amaretto Sour

“God, this is exhausting”, I catch myself saying aloud, and down another shot the bartender unwillingly poured for me after waving a fiver at him. Someone laughs down at the other end of the bar, and I shoot them my best death stare, which isn’t saying much because I can hardly be mean to the fruit flies currently swarming my teeny tiny apartment kitchen.

“It’s really not funny, thank you very much.”

The stranger is an extraordinarily tall man in a very expensive looking, perfectly tailored, navy blue suit. His forearms rest on the bar top, both hands cradling an empty crystal glass, and his head hangs low with full, thick black hair shadowing his pale face. He lifts a pair of deeply set, brown eyes to meet mine, and I notice the square set of his razor-sharp jawline perfectly outlined by close-cropped stubble. I feel heat rising up my neck and spreading across my cheeks and I turn back toward the bar to hide it.

“You’re absolutely right, my apologies. It’s hilarious, actually.”

I shoot him a side-eyed glance and catch a smirk turning up the corners of his very full lips. He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and starts towards me.

“Tell me, amaretto, why isn’t a stunning woman in a glimmering red dress out on the dance floor having the time of her life?”

I laugh, breathy and easy, “Amaretto? I wish my name was that beautiful.”

“I’m sure your name is even more gorgeous than your eyes. They’re the color my favorite bottle of amaretto sitting right there,” he points to the top shelf, “as it shimmers in the sunshine on a beautiful beach somewhere off the coast of Spain.”

I throw my head back exposing the vulnerable flesh of my neck and laugh again at the ridiculousness of this man’s words.

“Tell me, does that work on every girl?”

“Only the ones with amaretto eyes.”

I shake my head with an easy smile stretching across my face and a curl falls in front of my eyes. He tucks it behind one ear, and I blush ferociously without trying to hide it this time.

“Shall I call you by your beautiful name or can I watch you blush while I continue to describe my favorite drink?”

“My name is Landon, very glamorous, I know, but please, keep the compliments coming.”

“Landon.” He says it slow and smooth, as if he’s savoring the taste of my name on his lips. “You are the most glamorous woman with the most glamorous name at this exhausting event.”

“And what shall I call you, sweet talker?”

He laughs, easy, throaty, breathy, “You can call me whatever you’d like, but my name is Richard.”

“Hmm, I think I’ll call you Dick then.”

This time he laughs deeply and fully – it sounds like a cello concerto in remembrance of a long-lost lover in a melody I’ll never forget – and his midnight-colored hair falls in front of his face again. He brushes it away, and I notice he wears no wedding band. Thank god, because I’m not doing that again, but something tells me I would have said yes anyways.

“I should have seen that one coming.”

“You’re not the only one with nicknames.”

“Fair enough. So, my question still stands, what makes this night so exhausting and terrible?”

“Family drama, I won’t bore you with it.”

“Nothing you could say would ever bore me.”

I half laugh and sigh at his flirtations, “Oh the usual, mom disapproves of this, dad is upset with that, my sister is the perfect golden child and “why can’t you be like her? Isn’t it time to settle down?” and I’m just tired of hearing it. I don’t know why they invite me to these events if they don’t want me here anyways. Hell, I don’t know why I continue to say yes…I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

“I’m sorry they treat you this way. Maybe there’s still time to enjoy the night. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Sure, I’d like that, thank you.”

“I want you to try my favorite drink – the one you so fondly remind me of, amaretto. Is that alright?”

I smile and tell him that’s more than okay and he puts two fingers up to the bartender. I catch sight of myself in the mirror lining the back of the bar – my skin is flushed with a natural blush just underneath my high cheekbones, sweat highlights my protruding collarbones, and chestnut curls hang loose and free framing my face. I admire myself for a moment, trying to see what he does. I’ve been told I’m beautiful, but I don’t feel that way very often. A moment later, the bartender appears with two crystal glasses filled with reddish golden-brown liquid garnished with a delicate orange peel and maraschino cherry.

 “Cheers, Landon, to shitty family, exhausting events, and this night that brought me you.”

I smile at him and clink his glass. The liquor has been chilled and it’s very strong, but it’s divine – the perfect balance of sweet almond with bitter orange, rich cherry, and a note of sour aftertaste.

“This is delicious, thank you, Richard,”

“You’re very welcome. I’d like to make this night memorable for you. I want to watch your eyes shine and your dress sparkle as I twirl you around.”

He leans in close – close enough to smell the spice of his aftershave, feel his breath hitch on my ear, lips centimeters from that delicate spot on my neck that sends shockwaves through me – and says to me with his voice low and smooth, “Then I want to lean in and watch your stunning eyes close as I taste amaretto on your lips.”

I shudder and goosebumps raise on my exposed skin despite the heat emanating from my body. He takes my still-full drink and places it on the bar top. He places his hand out, palm up, and I place mine in his. It looks slender, delicate, and tanned compared to his.

“Amaretto, may I have this dance?”

I nod, speechless, but grinning a girlish, feeble smile, and he leads me towards the masses of other guests twirling on the dancefloor to the rhythm of the swinging jazz band. Without warning, he takes my hand and twirls me into him and back out, quicker than I can register. I find my footing and follow his lead – he’s very good, but I’m better – and it feels like the entire world has melted around us. We laugh, smile hugely, and he catches me by the waist when my feet work too fast for my own good. Without warning, he picks me up and raises me to the sky – I feel like I’m floating, no, soaring through the clouds - and spins me in a small circle. He gently places my feet back on the ground and grabs my waist, pulling me into him. I wrap my fingers behind his neck as he bends down and kisses me – softly and shyly at first, and then passionately and powerfully. I savor the sweet almond on his tongue as he pulls away and stares into my eyes. His, once chocolate brown, are now nearly entirely black, and his hair shines iridescent like a raven’s wing.

He smiles at me, deviously, and spins me around, once, twice, three times, four times, and I’m laughing like a child spinning on a carousel, but then his hand is no longer there. I right myself, but my vision and senses are blurred by the lights, liquor, and dizziness. I look around but don’t see him – I couldn’t have spun that far away, right? I do a lap around the dance floor – not here – I head back to the bar – not here. I wait outside the restroom in case he suddenly felt sick, and I ask a gentleman heading in to check on him – he informs me that no one else was in there. I ask other guests if they’ve seen him, but they have no idea who I’m talking about. He’s just gone, disappeared without a trace, like he was never really here.

I press my back to the wall and slide down to the floor in defeat. I feel so foolish and embarrassed. I let him play with me like prey, and I fell for every flirtation and compliment, and I hate that I can still taste that godforsaken drink. The sour aftertaste coating my tongue is a bitter reminder of my stupidity. Lost in a sea of self pity and drowning in drunkenness, I fight to focus my eyes on my sister shaking me back to consciousness.

“Landon! Landon! Jesus Christ what did you take this time?”

“What? Nothing I’m just really drunk,” I slur.

“Sis, you gotta stop with the amaretto sours this happens every time,” she scolds as she hauls me up. “Seriously, ‘cause now I have to deal with mom and dad.”

Then it all comes crashing back - the drugs in the bathroom and all those shots that blur the line between reality and my imagination, the trips to the restroom to throw it all up so I could do it all over again, the look on the bartender’s face when I kept coming back. I feel the tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes and my throat start to swell.

“Oh come on now don’t cry, you’re not that bad tonight. It’s okay, let’s go home.”

She takes my hand and leads me out into the cool night and the breeze raises goosebumps on my arms again. I’m unwillingly reminded of the feeling of his hands in mine and his breath in my ear. I swipe at my eyes and I swear I can smell his aftershave on my face.

“Hey, by the way, who was that guy you were dancing with? He was a dream,” she teases wistfully.

“Yeah, he was,” I reply with a sigh, still unsure if he was ever really there or if this is all just another figment of my imagination.