August. A Saturday. It is 6am. Or thereabouts. I sowed my story, fought for my side. Even wrote some of the words that ended up in the newspapers. In the aftermath, I fled.
Adventure. Its prospect has always been my nourishment. The thing that made me something more than a hollow man. Adventure pours into that void. Fills it, until it overflows.
And so, I sit here. On this bluff, at sunrise. Overlooking dual runs of water. Joined, like two bodies doing the business. I seek the thrill, that sweet adrenaline that sets my mind aright. In the pink light on my face. In the sound of the river. In the music of birds and the rustling of leaves.
Those things don’t take me back to my pinnacle. My apex. Not today.
They take me back to her.
How her legs pumped when she ran, screaming with laughter, along the bank of a creek. Her bare feet like aged leather. A face, unadorned, that made me quicken. She outran me. Every time. At the last second, she let me catch her. Fold her into my embrace. The nearest thing to love I ever knew.
So much like me. An adventurer, through and through. She took the best part of me with her when she died. And, I bide my time with corpse revivers. Trying to make sense of a life that shouldn’t be mine.
A corpse reviver was a staple cocktail in the 1930′s. Recent mixology has revived such classics. Here’s a recipe, in case you want to give it a try. Combine all ingredients in a shaker with ice, except for lemon peel. Shake and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with lemon peel.
1 ounce gin
1 ounce cocchi americano
1 ounce fresh lemon juice
1 ounce Cointreau
Dash of absinthe
Shave of lemon peel
This post is part of the series Death Becomes Me. It is a series of fiction. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to read the first installment, go here for the second, go here for the third, click here for the fourth, go here for the fifth, click here for the sixth and go here for the seventh.