There’s a lukewarm pot of cider on the
stove, homemade, strong enough you can taste the
liquor flavor, not so strong it matters.
It’s mostly ignored for the countertop
bar, one half of the sink lined with plastic,
filled with ice, a nice selection of cheap
and less cheap bottles for do-it-yourself
concoctions. Despite the DIY, I
still adhere to BYOB, Guinness
for me, last year’s lost memory all I
need to keep me from the real competitive
drinking, the taste of everything, the
“Hell, it’s the holidays!” taint in the back
of my mouth. Won’t be a naughty boy, no.

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