I like drinking Bloody Marys for brunch on hung over Sundays. I like the way the big olives peer from the glass, bobbing eyeballs soaked in vodka, illustrating my future potential with unblinking stares. I like the way the tomato juice separates from the ice cubes, near the rim of the glass, standing apart to let the vodka, the tabasco and crushed lime know we are working hard together for my inebriation. I like the sound of the ice cubes song, randomly bouncing off the glass, when reaching for my mouth : percussions! I like the way it makes me breathe deeply after a mouthful of madness, spicy and cold in concert! I like the film the tomato juice leaves behind in the skeleton of ice, one on top of the other Stacked with the emptiness of knowing a lover has gone, and will not return. The feeling strays for a brief waltz with memories, kind and unkind, long ago and at that moment, frozen in a drink. I like drinking Bloody Marys, repeatedly, seeing the glass full once again, of possibilities and impossibilities, the lover returns to own my tongue, speaking for me, at times, words that should really be left just to endless mindful musings, but Bloody Marys speak when cultivated with frustrations turned to acrid tears and manifested fears. The ice beats out one more song, and then it’s gone. I like drinking Bloody Marys, and Bloody Marys like drinking me.