Eighty-Proof Looking Glass

The martini stem stood sweated and translucent after perfectly timed gin-swirling in the ice-packed shaker; this new kitchen's first toast would--once and for all--wash down any regret Cliff had for not spending the same money on a new 'Vette or Shelby Mustang.


As the old joke went, it would only take one martini to do the trick and it would probably be the fourth one...tho' the humor was lost within himself knowing a guy could always return a car but be stuck with this room Paula Dean could only deem "Gour-gasmic."


"Woops, olive stabber," Cliff mumbled as he began opening drawer after superglide drawer in an intensifying search for..."Gotcha!"


The wooden skewers' home would change in that moment.


So what if the new refrigerator had the capacity to feed the Green Bay Packers and Chinese Army as he "Oomphed" swinging its massive door with the sacrosanct shelf holding his olive stuffings' choices-- almond, jalapeno, garlic, bleu cheese, pimiento--and the eventual green orb lucky enough to be selected for the occasion.


Now two years later, Cliff wished he had drunk himself into oblivion that day, too, denying that the deadly combo of a Wall Street collapse, the IRS and an ill-chosen 2nd mortgage could snatch away all but disjointed memories and deliver him to his present circumstance at General's ICU, in his final hours, dying of cirrhosis and for one last drink.