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.