Burning the Night from Both Ends

The bourbon hit the lips differently today than any other time. I was indulging in a perfect specimen of a cigar, the Padron 1926 Serie No. 90 Maduro, which can hold an ash as long as the cigar itself if you don’t flick it like an amateur. I could still smell the scent of Dior Elixir on me even with all that smoke touching the ceiling. That oud scent, that musk — it always sets the tone just right. But this is not why I was here, contemplating this evening all dressed up, wearing nothing but a custom-tailored grey two-piece suit with a slim-fit solid black dress shirt, cufflinks of course, and ready to go. I had bigger plans.

The sun was setting down as usual, as it had been for as long as I can remember. The last glimpses faded behind the tallest corner of the building across my condo. My place is not big, but it’s mine. It has a vivid character, with lots of amusement for people who don’t travel nor explore the riches of the world and other cultures. It has colorful walls and a massive collection of fine spirits, ranging from shelf-available bottles to cask-strength and limited editions. Not to neglect the sporadic shelves of hand-picked books, complimented by two handcrafted cigar humidors full of perfectly stored cigars. I was leaving my spot immediately.

The music was slowly fading as fast as I was getting drunk. The bartender — a fine-looking brunette with long straight hair just below her shoulders, bright red nails, and a huge smile — was preparing me another Old Fashioned. “Woodford Reserve only,” I said, because I knew exactly what I wanted. I experimented long enough to know better. “It gives off way stronger oak notes while mixing,” I added quickly. She gave me a smirk and a look that could only be described as a compliment and an abuse. But I didn’t give a shit — I was paying for it, and I wanted it my way.

My table was ready, but I wasn’t done with my drink. I left it unfinished on the countertop, slamming it gently on the marble surface, splashing some elements onto the black square napkin. I stood up straight, fixed my jacket, did up the top button, and made a 180-degree turn toward my table. The brunette said something behind the counter while I was stepping away; I only felt bespoke alligator-skin shoes hugging my feet and bending with each step. I didn’t hear what she said, nor did it matter — I was starting to get hungry and bored.

I sat close to the fake fireplace, opposite from the high tables. The seat was comfortable but a bit too low for my liking, wrapped in brown fake leather. I didn’t need to look at the menu — I wasn’t new at this. I knew exactly what I wanted. The scrawny-looking waiter, at most nineteen, had grease stains all over his white shirt. His not-yet-developed voice asked me about my evening. Did he really give a shit? Who knows. I ignored all of it. I was ready to order.

“Medium rare New York strip, with a side of mashed potatoes and mushrooms on the side — not on top of the steak.” I machine-gun delivered the statement. He took the menus and disappeared toward the kitchen. What a dud. “That fucker didn’t even ask me about the drink,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to resort to connecting with that curvy tease of a bartender behind the counter — she made a killer cocktail last time. I raised my arm toward the bar to get her attention. Oh, she noticed, trust me. I made a gesture of holding a glass shape. I saw that smile glowing across the restaurant. She got the message.

The steak was getting cold, and I was getting impatiently frustrated. Surprisingly, she moved her tightly wrapped ass in that cocktail dress faster from the bar to my table with my drink in hand than that puberty-looking waiter bringing me the cutlery he forgot earlier. What a tool. Hate is a strong word, but I hate cold steaks — though I don’t mind cold mashed potatoes. I’m a freak. Despite it being too dark, pot lights barely sending weak beams along the walls, I still managed to devour the meat. It was cooked perfectly, sides and all. I hate wiping my face with white cloth napkins, so I resorted to paper tissues only.

After paying the check and leaving a generous tip — I always do, despite a few hiccups — I confidently stood up and left the restaurant, refraining from looking back at that red-lipstick-wearing attraction. I had better plans. The moon was still rising, barely reaching its full potential. The breeze felt cool and fresh with a slight hint of salt in the air. Walking along the main four-lane road, streetlights burned through the slightly dry pavement beneath my steps. I decided to deviate and enter a more gentleman-like establishment — the kind that doesn’t scream we’re open but holds a tense feeling of mystery.

The jazz — that beat, that rhythm — everything I wanted. Pure orgasm for my ears. I split the heavy fabric drapes apart and a sharply dressed man pointed with his left hand toward the corner high-top table with a small burning candle. I felt at home. The seat was firm but reliable. I got myself another Old Fashioned. The waiter brought me a drink in one hand and an ashtray in the other. I knew I was at the right address. I had everything — cutter, proper lighter, even long-stick matches. I let the ritual begin.

I was never alone — it was never quiet nor bright — but I felt solitude hitting me progressively harder in the dark corner of that fine establishment. I was disconnected from reality while taking perfect drags from that cigar and sipping the third round of neat bourbon from the Glencairn. I never felt as secluded as this moment, truly divorced from the hype and all the outside noise of the busy world. I was considering a drastic change — something that would flip me around and make me uncomfortable. Challenge me. Push me beyond logical reasoning. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I felt the urge.

At times, dedicating time to yourself can be more therapeutic and stabilizing than any other form of conventional therapy. I ordered another drink, then another, called an Uber, and slammed my hand on that familiar marble countertop. I finished the night in well-established intimate company.

Some men pray for peace; I only ever seem to find the places that ruin me just enough to feel alive.