The bottle sat in the curio cabinet on a shelf all its own for twenty-two years. Full and factory sealed, until today. It had been a test of my sobriety. To keep it within arms reach but never to touch a drop. My sponsor told me more times than I care to count it was dangerous to keep an egg sucking dog in a hen house. He died five years ago. He was sober fifty years when he got taken out by a drunk driver. The bottle ended him one way or another. One of life's ironic, cruel jokes. I knew the misery I was about to unleash. I sat it on the table beside the humidor filled with Cuban cigars. The seal broke easier than I expected. The aroma of the bourbon crawled up my nose like an old friend coming home. A knock came at the front door. An impolite racket, too loud and long. Like trick or treaters or some overzealous court official serving a warrant. Usually, Mary would have run to answer. She was good that way. She left me alone with my writing. I miss her every day. Especiall
Just Writings of Bored Me