A quintessence of whisky tastes.
Laurel aka Aisling
1. ” Ah, seaweed, sultry smoke and harsh loveliness,” she sighs appreciatively, sipping the amber liquid, as a rather long tongue traces circles around lips moist with the thrice dlstilled laphroaig.
2. “This stuff tastes like a smokehouse and slaughter house combined”. He grimaces spitting out her drink of choice. She smiles, surreptitiously savoring her recently discovered way to discern if there will be a second date.
3. Laird Hardon gazes with fascination at the three shots of Island Whisky before him. Slowly he raises the first glass. As he inhales, descending, his eyes close. Within he tastes the salty splendors of wave tossed wild windy skys, craggy damp rocks and a tantalizingly dangerous briney ocean, As he savors the wicked tastes he slips more deeply into trance.
Sir? “Was that the Lagavoolin, the Laphroiag or the Talisker?”
Lord Hardon was lost in the pleasures of penetrating a mystery. He was not ready to give words to the stimulating serenede of scents.
4. ” Papa, I want a wee taste. Your third wifey said I could have a wee taste.”
“Did she lad? all right, here.” The child wraps both hands around the shot glass that is decorated with pirate ships. The child grimaces and then manages a smile. Tiny pink tongue flicking back and forth he says, “it smells like pirates and treasures and the long legs of ladies.”
“Lad”, his father said.” I thought that was you under the table last night.”
The wee boy giggled. ” I wish I could join you down there son.”
“You can if you like, it’s oh so much fun.”
“Another wee taste of the amber licorice brew?”
5. “This one is staid and dependable” said the olderly man dressed in a violet velvet vest and quite a few strange strings woven into a medley of mistakes. The olderly man set the whisky glass on the table with a clang. As he tried the next glass he sniffed strangely, almost inhaling the stuff.
” This is too wild” he said, insulted by the wild smokey peaty pleasures. “This is island whisky” he intoned. ” I want my whisky from the center of Scotland, not from the wild Islands full of Silkie Stories.” To himself, he whispers, and far too many memories.
