My Golden Friend

By | 13 May 2024

By six pm on Friday afternoon, I take my promised pleasure
from the fridge. All week denied to safeguard function of the
liver, deter heart disease, ensure that I can take the wheel
at a moment’s notice, or simply claim I’m not the lush I could
so easily become. A sigh of sweet surrender to the lull and hum
of its nerve-softening song that tempers all the tensions of the
working week, each compromise and hassle on the street, each
forced smile and weary offering of self. Such Nectar of the gods
feels more like succour of the suburbs as I plop the kids in front
of the TV, flop down beside, prepare to dull my loathed sobriety.
With house keys on the hook, bra strap unclasped, golden friend
and I will sink into easy chair and easy evening, burble platitudes
and pleasantries of nothing in particular, and nothing much to fear
while blurring my ‘to do’ list into background. Cup the cool curve
of my glass, tip the full, round brim of yellow gold, so sharp-sweet
so tingling cold towards my lipstick chafing lips, then let elixir slip
along my throat like liquid silk. Only a glass or two but just enough
to ease, enough to soften creases in my forehead, the stiff set of my
shoulders. Smooth the light and mute the drone of all the buzz and
bluster of the day, rocking evening into golden amber mellow.

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