Then his.
And he would sit across from me.
“To another day,” he would say.
That was all.
No explanation.
No toast to birthdays or anniversaries.
No special occasion.
Just two glasses.
Every night.
When we were newly married, I found it charming.
Victor was never the kind of man who made grand romantic gestures.
He wasn’t a poet.
He didn’t buy flowers every Friday.
He wasn’t the type to write long love letters.
But he remembered small things.
He remembered how I liked my coffee.
He knew which side of the bed I preferred.
He knew I hated sleeping with the bedroom door completely closed.
And every night at nine, he wanted us to sit together for a few minutes.
So I assumed the drink was simply part of his strange little way of keeping us connected.
The first time I asked him what was in it, he laughed.
“Something you’ll never guess.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
Victor smiled and lifted his glass.
“Only a drink.”
Then he took a sip.
I did the same.
It tasted bitter.
Not unpleasant exactly.
Just unusual.
There was something earthy about it, followed by a faint metallic taste that lingered on my tongue.
