Scotch. I still don’t get it.

They all drank Scotch. The royal ones, the powerful ones, the old ones.  I could never stand the taste. Ridiculous, when I think about what I do drink.

I can’t stomach tequila–too many bad memories–mostly of an impulsive climb and how close I came to smashing every bone in my body.  A saint saved me. He saved me so many times, I can’t even count.

I’m thoroughly bored by wine, all of it. Every glass is like the one before and the next to come. I guess grapes are grapes.  I don’t touch Port–too many memories of you, lover. The one and only sip I took made me feel as if I would shatter in a million pieces.

So, I’ve made it my mission to learn to like Scotch. All these flavors I’m supposed to taste, ginger, vanilla, cinnamon…and clove. Hard to taste anything if I’m holding my nose just to get it down. The promise of the cloves is what drives me to keep trying.

Sip, swirl, smile. I’ll get it eventually.

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