Perfect Manhattan, up, please. Bulleit Rye.
I'm privy to a coupe. (It's Chris's fault.)
Don't bother spearing the cherry. (Chris would just toss it in and let it sink to the bottom.)
*I'm watching not-Chris stir and strain. I missed the moment he was dealing with vermouth, so I am desperately hoping he knows how to execute perfect*
And I'm 6 feet closer to the Earth than I feel I am: floating, thinking of Lynnfield, Massachusetts. I'd sit there, sip there. By the time that little Luxardo cherry rolled out of the glass onto my tongue, and after I'd smash it in my teeth 5 or 6 times, I'd be ready to bid adieu to Chris without an agenda.
A quiet line of trees near a porcelain lake. Me and the manhattan in my gut.
You can take me out of Manhattan but you can't take Manhattan out of me. Unless you've got a stomach pump.
Manhattan was always inside me. That's why my first time in New York felt like coming into myself. And every time since.