Bacchian Beauty

He clutched the bottle, like some sacred talisman, tight to his chest as though he would be able to absorb its warming effects by osmosis. It had been four solid days since he had his last drink, and the mere thought of going even one more day was eating him up inside. Putting the bottle back down on his writing desk, he pulled a small silver knife from his pocket, and began cutting the tinfoil wrapper away from the cork. He could already taste the whiskey, as he had been dreaming of virtually nothing else for the last three days. The wrapper now disposed of--discarded on the living room floor--he gently pried the cork from the bottle, listening for that subtle "pop" as the air rushed in to fill the small vacuum. With the patient eagerness of a man relishing the anticipation, he poured the light brown liquid over the single ice-cube that occupied the glass. Solemnly, lovingly, he pressed the top of the glass between thumb and forefinger, and with a delicacy only a true alcoholic could appreciate, he formed a small, repeated circular motion with his hand, watching with joy as the water mingled with the whiskey, producing a magnificent work of art, unbeknownst to the inner echelons of high society and the artists that fill its ranks. Lifting the glass to his nose, he took in the sweet aroma before pressing the glass to his lips. The liquid filled his mouth, rushing over his tongue, and warming his chest and belly. The grotesque multitudinous of life merged and transformed within his soul into a singular moment of Bacchian beauty.