his fingers. He turned the glass slowly and inspected the
liquid, tipping the tumbler lightly back and forth,
producing delicate amber waves. His long, bony nose
dipped into the glass and inhaled a long draught. He closed
his eyes and sighed deeply, as if the aroma of Scottish dirt,
decay and malted barley were the essence of life. Then he
returned the glass to the tray without tasting any of the
contents.
“You are right” I said. “This scotch is
extraordinary”. I was unable to suppress a broad grin and
immediately attempted to regain a more serious demeanor.
I took another, longer taste. Serenity spread through my
nerves and rose to my brain like a cumulus mist. “From
which distillery does it come?” I asked.
His own expression was one of an old man’s
pleasure at pleasing and sharing a marvelous experience
with someone less experienced but perhaps capable of
finding beauty in such things. He waved a skeletal finger in
the air. “A distillery long ago gone and forgotten” he
replied. “My great-grandfather preserved a few bottles in
the cellar. The bottle from which you have tasted is the
only one of its kind remaining. A pity.” The expression on
his face became somber and regretful. Perhaps he thought
of his great-grandfather. More likely he thought of how
little of the precious liquid remained. Yet, he had shared
some of it with me for a reason and that reason was still
unknown.
It may have been the proximity of our chairs to the
fire or possibly the unusual strength of the aged spirits but,
suddenly, I felt very drowsy. The hour was late, well past
eleven in the evening. I rubbed my eyes and tried to speak
but my tongue was leaden and incapable of movement. It’s
possible the scene before me was confused by fumes from
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