Louche

 
        The cool liquid taunted me from its glassy prison, like emerald eyes beckoning playfully across the bar. I motioned to the bottle and watched as it was picked delicately from its perch.
         “Death by living, I presume?”
         Her voice, coming from my left, washed over me like a tide crashing on craggy rock. I kept my eyes lowered, training them on the dissolving sweetness, as sugary water trickled into my drink. Tender tendrils of her earthly saffron scent eased into my nostrils. Jade green began to give way to a milky cloud.
         “Can't say I'm living. Death by death is fine by me,” I managed to reply.
         I felt her gaze piercing my skull, emanating from pools that were probably a shifting hazel. Her no doubt shapely cherry lips must have curled into a smirk as her slender hand came to rest on my shoulder. Strands of what must have been spun orange gold framing her face brushed against my cheek. Her honey whisper tickled my ears:
         “How about death by pleasure?”
         Sip by sip I took my drink, waiting for this cruel hallucination to disperse. But all that dispersed was consciousness. The last thing I remember was my ring twinkling menacingly at me as it clinked against the glass.
         “There's nothing to be afraid of,” I told it, smiling, before I downed my last swig.