Thursday, 19 January 2012
A Moment of Waking
There is a moment of waking. The moment my brain manages to catch up and survey the scene. It's that moment in that war movie where the protagonist has been shocked by a nearby grenade explosion. The sound is sucked away, leaving only the high tone of tinnitus and slow-motion movement.
The tiles have been splashed, covered in a coat of reddish-brown liquid. It has pooled at the base of the kettle, soiled the mat beside the sink for drying glassware. I can feel it against my face and down my torso, this liquid. I see it dripping down the face of the cabinets to the floor.
What has happened? Am I hurt?
I think. I remember a contemplation. A choice, of whether to indulge, knowing perhaps that I shouldn't.
And then I feel the glass held tight in my hand, and the metal object in my other. I hold the glass up to my eyes.
It says "Black Lung," and below, "Bourbon-Barrel-Aged Smokey Stout," and further below, "Moon Dog."