A Drink Called The Ameila

Katie’s purple cocktail tastes like a good kiss: rich, sexy, sweet, and it goes straight to your head. The coupe is frosted with a sugar rim that goes half-way down the glass which makes it impossible not to get a mouthful of crystalline joy with every swallow. I stand behind her at the bar, chatting with the bartender and stealing sips of her drink, until the couple next to us move a seat down, whether in irritation or just to offer me a place to park.

I pretend not to notice their disappearance, and casually slide into the seat after what I consider to be an appropriate interval.