I mourned that bottle of liquor you gave me. I remember you wrapped it in a fleece blanket. I consider it a victory that I don't remember the design on the blanket, though if you gave me a moment, I fear I could. I don't give myself those moments anymore. You said you had a gift for me, and there it was: all of the things you loved and something I loved in a pile on your bed. I was actually grateful you'd given me something I could keep for long after you were gone. I know now we should have drunk the entirety of those bottles in the months we had left, sucked them dry like our affair and sent the bottles in for recycling.
I was still angry, so I dumped that whole damn bottle in with the grapefruit juice knowing it would have upset you, the cruel fate of the rye whiskey, an innocent bystander. We poured it into a water bottle mixed with drugstore grapefruit juice--pinker and sweeter than God intended. We took sips in the dark of the theatre, our faces interpretive dances for the taste. That night, after the movie and the headache set in, I cried in the shape of a fetus thinking how you'd never seen that apartment, never would know my whiskey faux pas, never would discuss another book, another predictable movie ending with me over drinks and stolen leg pets. Months later I donated the dusty bottle of Benedictine to a friend, a mixologist who I still sometimes get the urge to introduce you to.