The Stoli bottle's frost melts to brilliance^{1 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 lust²

squats^{3 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.