The Stoli bottle's frost melts to brilliance where I press my
fingers. Evidence. Proof I'm here， drunk in your lamplit kitchen，
breathing up your rented air， no intention of leaving. Our lust
squats blunt as a brick on the table between us. We're low on
vocabulary. We're vodkaquiet. Vodkadeliquescent. Vodka doesn't
like theatrics： it walks into your midnight bedroom already
naked， slips in beside you， takes your shoulders in its icy hands
and shoves. Is that a burglar at the window？ No， he lives with
me， actually. Well， let him in for Christ's sake， let's actually get this
over with.