Death in the Afternoon

A delicate flute of pale green liquid sits shimmering before me in the afternoon heat. It twinkles mischievously, a shot of absinthe bathed in cava. The two dance together, creating a crisp anise flavor, like sipping liquorish. I lift the glass and feel a light tingle on my tongue as the drink seeps slowly into my bloodstream. My thoughts fade. My mind wanders the space between ideas. I sit, basking in the sun, as a dreamy smile dances across my lips. Swirling the last drops in the glass, I tilt my head back and languidly close my eyes. In an instant, in this very moment, I understand what Hemingway meant. Sighing in the dusty heat I lift the glass, a silent toast, to death in the afternoon.