27 Ymiden, 724
.
At home, in his own kitchen, was exactly where he wanted to be. There were no external noises, no background tinnitus that would have otherwise maddened a hearing man had he been one. It was just him, the countertops and cabinetry and the sweet silence he was all too familiar with; it was situations like these where soundlessness was more a blessing than a curse. There were no distractions save for the pitter pattering of animal feet that were inaudible to a deaf man, and the push against the hem of his jeans from either a feline demanding to be fed or a canine wishing to be played with. Outside of those minor distractions, Kotton was ultimately left alone to his own devices and thoughts. He could screw the latter if he could, but it was a part of him whether he liked it or not.
Worick was expected to arrive in the next half hour to an hour upon Kotton’s insistence. He had been wanting to show his best friend what he knew about making cocktails and other alcoholic beverages. He had most, if not all, of the ingredients that were called for. He had spent hours running through the rudimentary notes he had taken during the times he went about observing local bartenders and craftsmen. Whilst he desperately aspired to make the most difficult of drinks, he disdainfully chose to sign his name beside the declaration that he was far too inexperienced to make anything other than the most basic of drinks. At least the name was cool and that was a Tall Black Bulldog. He had only observed half of its making, but nonetheless felt self-assured enough to make it himself without the professional monologues or weary comments about how he didn’t shake the tumbler enough, cut the lime wedge too thin or poured too few or too many ice cubes. He was on his own and he cherished the independence. Hesitation, whilst ordinarily his style, was not in his sights tonight. He busted out a confident groove by first beginning the preparations of crafting such a uniquely named drink.
At the forefront of his mind were the essentials: One ounce of coffee liquor (which his medical mind couldn’t help but translate to thirty whopping millilitres), one ounce vodka and some carbonated water. And It was to be served in a highball. He didn’t have this particular piece of glassware and wasn’t exactly sure why it needed to be so specific other than just simply hold the final volume of the drink, but whatever- one small change to the recipe wouldn’t harm anyone. Adding the liquor was easy enough, what came next was a little trickier. The coffee liquor was to swirl beneath a topping of carbonated water. He hadn’t written how much carbonated water he should use, so he just winged it. Accidents often created happy coincidences, didn’t they?
There was a splash of lemon, though squeezed directly from a lemon wedge or poured out of a bottle of pre-squeezed lemons, he wasn’t sure, but did it really matter? Wasn’t lemon… lemon? There would still be a garnish of it somewhere against the rim of the glass. The garnish was important! And if you dare forget this essential step in the drink making process, may all your children and their children’s children suffer-
Kotton found peace with his progress thus far, but there was always the doubt. Doubt basked in the attention it received from Kotton. It lingered, it haunted, and it stunk up the room like someone had just crop dusted everyone within it. An important question kept coming back to him: was he right for the job? Was cooking/brewing a skill that called to him?
To hell with every dubious thought that dared brazen his confidence. He would make this drink for his friend and it would not be squandered by his need to be immediately perfect at every new hobby he tried.
Returning back to his notes, he scanned to locate where he had left off. Apparently after caffeination there was nothing of ‘fluff’; no additional affectation that milk or added sweeteners seemed to provide. So this was how the drink was meant to be made? He had to force himself from adding any extra flavours. He didn’t want to challenge a recipe that had originally foretold greatness. He also wasn’t about to put his namesake on any adjustments that could possibly lead to ick and distaste and all but tasteful splendour. Patience was the only offensive card he had in play, and on the bench it would continue to rest. But still… doubt.
He tried the drink for himself as any good chef or barista would. Tasting your creation was all a part of the process. And in this case? It tasted kind of good, but could really use a bit of milk. Damn the instructions. Fortunately for him, he had some on standby. He eyeballed how much he added before taking another hearty swig. Yes, this tasted better than it had.
Kotton’s sense of pride bloomed, giving way to energy he thought he had lost after a long day’s hard work. He frolicked through the house ensuring beds were made, pillows were fluffed and sheets were laid without wrinkles all before stationing himself just in front of the front door. If he was about to revolutionise his friend’s mind, he would do so with his house tidy.
The knock at the door came only a few minutes later.
“Welcome in,” the young man said with a formal greeting, directing his friend to the very comfortable cushion of the living room chair. “I hope you wewen’t left out in the wain fow vewy long.” He had just now taken account of the humid air and wetness that landed on his exposed skin.
“The sky seems to want to beam me with pellets of rock!” Worick proclaimed. Wait, had it been hailing too? It had slipped his mind.
Kotton laughed. “Pellets! That’s one fow the books,” he replied in hest, not entirely sure as to whether it was expected of him to prod at his friend or simply encourage his aimless attempt at making a joke. It didn’t matter in the long run; Kotton would laugh and encourage and invoke any sense of confidence in his friend because that’s what he would want to happen to him had the roles been reversed.
Once Worick had found a comfortable place on the couch, Kotton bustled over to where he had his drink waiting to be drunk. He grasped it with both hands, not wanting to spill it all over the upholstery, and slowly transported it to the coffee table in front of his friend.
“What’s this?”
Kotton smirked. “Been expewimenting. Twy it and tell me what you think.”
Worick bent to retrieve the glass and brought its rim to his lips. He sipped once. Twice. Three times before giving that pout where your bottom lip sticks out but your eyebrows go up in the kind of way that means ‘not bad’ or ‘interesting, let me think about it’.
“I like it.”
Kotton’s heart soared.
“But it needs a little more sweetness. Lots of bitter, that.”
From soaring to free falling back into the atmosphere, Kotton’s pride deflated. But it wasn’t without air entirely. Not yet. He was alright with being given a little constructive criticism every now and then. It didn’t mean his day had been ruined.
“I’ll take that into considewation,” he replied with a smile. “So how have things been?”
The air between them was so pregnant with pause, he wondered whether it would give birth right this very second.
Finally, his friend admitted a piece of information that made his stomach twist and turn with repulsively.
"That fling I had an arc ago... she's told me she just gave birth to a baby girl."
There was literally no notes he had taken, no book he had borrowed from the library and no nurse he could consult for him to formulate the correct response to this.
"I-I mean-"
Worick hung his head in hands, though he seemed less heartbroken and more confused. But Kotton didn't have any answer for him. He was someone who detested having children and the mere thought of marrying someone made him want to regurgitate the last meal he had consumed. So what was he to do to console his friend who had just been made a father?
A placement of his hand on the agitatedly moving back of his friend- that's all he could do. His mind was still trying to process the situation and it was doing a terrible job at that- what was there a lack of baby hormones that were delayed in being administered in his flesh? What was he supposed to do when he didn't know what to do? How was he supposed to feel when he didn't know what to feel? He felt miserable- at least that was something, though an emotion that wasn't conducive to the current situation.
Still, falsifying every feeling he had, Kotton appeased his friend with a condoling pat and, "you will do what you think is right," before submitting himself to natural doubt. He remembered making a pact with Worick that stated no ploys to riches and no exploitation of beautiful women. When had that pact fallen through?
Agitation naturally filled his veins, but he refrained from bring such irritation to the surface. Instead, he was as attentive as ever to his friend who was seriously in the pits of self-dubiety and self-consciousness.
"I just-"
Out of nowhere Kotton said, "Life is full of mysteries and things that force us to face things we aren't ready to face. It's important we use what we know to defeat these random encounters and not let them win against us and our natural state of reservation.
Worick looked up at him with glassy eyes and managed a smile. "Okay."
"Okay."
"Okay."
That was there code and it meant that no matter how bad things got, there would always been some silver lining to look forward to. Or so Kotton hoped.
Worick was expected to arrive in the next half hour to an hour upon Kotton’s insistence. He had been wanting to show his best friend what he knew about making cocktails and other alcoholic beverages. He had most, if not all, of the ingredients that were called for. He had spent hours running through the rudimentary notes he had taken during the times he went about observing local bartenders and craftsmen. Whilst he desperately aspired to make the most difficult of drinks, he disdainfully chose to sign his name beside the declaration that he was far too inexperienced to make anything other than the most basic of drinks. At least the name was cool and that was a Tall Black Bulldog. He had only observed half of its making, but nonetheless felt self-assured enough to make it himself without the professional monologues or weary comments about how he didn’t shake the tumbler enough, cut the lime wedge too thin or poured too few or too many ice cubes. He was on his own and he cherished the independence. Hesitation, whilst ordinarily his style, was not in his sights tonight. He busted out a confident groove by first beginning the preparations of crafting such a uniquely named drink.
At the forefront of his mind were the essentials: One ounce of coffee liquor (which his medical mind couldn’t help but translate to thirty whopping millilitres), one ounce vodka and some carbonated water. And It was to be served in a highball. He didn’t have this particular piece of glassware and wasn’t exactly sure why it needed to be so specific other than just simply hold the final volume of the drink, but whatever- one small change to the recipe wouldn’t harm anyone. Adding the liquor was easy enough, what came next was a little trickier. The coffee liquor was to swirl beneath a topping of carbonated water. He hadn’t written how much carbonated water he should use, so he just winged it. Accidents often created happy coincidences, didn’t they?
There was a splash of lemon, though squeezed directly from a lemon wedge or poured out of a bottle of pre-squeezed lemons, he wasn’t sure, but did it really matter? Wasn’t lemon… lemon? There would still be a garnish of it somewhere against the rim of the glass. The garnish was important! And if you dare forget this essential step in the drink making process, may all your children and their children’s children suffer-
Kotton found peace with his progress thus far, but there was always the doubt. Doubt basked in the attention it received from Kotton. It lingered, it haunted, and it stunk up the room like someone had just crop dusted everyone within it. An important question kept coming back to him: was he right for the job? Was cooking/brewing a skill that called to him?
To hell with every dubious thought that dared brazen his confidence. He would make this drink for his friend and it would not be squandered by his need to be immediately perfect at every new hobby he tried.
Returning back to his notes, he scanned to locate where he had left off. Apparently after caffeination there was nothing of ‘fluff’; no additional affectation that milk or added sweeteners seemed to provide. So this was how the drink was meant to be made? He had to force himself from adding any extra flavours. He didn’t want to challenge a recipe that had originally foretold greatness. He also wasn’t about to put his namesake on any adjustments that could possibly lead to ick and distaste and all but tasteful splendour. Patience was the only offensive card he had in play, and on the bench it would continue to rest. But still… doubt.
He tried the drink for himself as any good chef or barista would. Tasting your creation was all a part of the process. And in this case? It tasted kind of good, but could really use a bit of milk. Damn the instructions. Fortunately for him, he had some on standby. He eyeballed how much he added before taking another hearty swig. Yes, this tasted better than it had.
Kotton’s sense of pride bloomed, giving way to energy he thought he had lost after a long day’s hard work. He frolicked through the house ensuring beds were made, pillows were fluffed and sheets were laid without wrinkles all before stationing himself just in front of the front door. If he was about to revolutionise his friend’s mind, he would do so with his house tidy.
The knock at the door came only a few minutes later.
“Welcome in,” the young man said with a formal greeting, directing his friend to the very comfortable cushion of the living room chair. “I hope you wewen’t left out in the wain fow vewy long.” He had just now taken account of the humid air and wetness that landed on his exposed skin.
“The sky seems to want to beam me with pellets of rock!” Worick proclaimed. Wait, had it been hailing too? It had slipped his mind.
Kotton laughed. “Pellets! That’s one fow the books,” he replied in hest, not entirely sure as to whether it was expected of him to prod at his friend or simply encourage his aimless attempt at making a joke. It didn’t matter in the long run; Kotton would laugh and encourage and invoke any sense of confidence in his friend because that’s what he would want to happen to him had the roles been reversed.
Once Worick had found a comfortable place on the couch, Kotton bustled over to where he had his drink waiting to be drunk. He grasped it with both hands, not wanting to spill it all over the upholstery, and slowly transported it to the coffee table in front of his friend.
“What’s this?”
Kotton smirked. “Been expewimenting. Twy it and tell me what you think.”
Worick bent to retrieve the glass and brought its rim to his lips. He sipped once. Twice. Three times before giving that pout where your bottom lip sticks out but your eyebrows go up in the kind of way that means ‘not bad’ or ‘interesting, let me think about it’.
“I like it.”
Kotton’s heart soared.
“But it needs a little more sweetness. Lots of bitter, that.”
From soaring to free falling back into the atmosphere, Kotton’s pride deflated. But it wasn’t without air entirely. Not yet. He was alright with being given a little constructive criticism every now and then. It didn’t mean his day had been ruined.
“I’ll take that into considewation,” he replied with a smile. “So how have things been?”
The air between them was so pregnant with pause, he wondered whether it would give birth right this very second.
Finally, his friend admitted a piece of information that made his stomach twist and turn with repulsively.
"That fling I had an arc ago... she's told me she just gave birth to a baby girl."
There was literally no notes he had taken, no book he had borrowed from the library and no nurse he could consult for him to formulate the correct response to this.
"I-I mean-"
Worick hung his head in hands, though he seemed less heartbroken and more confused. But Kotton didn't have any answer for him. He was someone who detested having children and the mere thought of marrying someone made him want to regurgitate the last meal he had consumed. So what was he to do to console his friend who had just been made a father?
A placement of his hand on the agitatedly moving back of his friend- that's all he could do. His mind was still trying to process the situation and it was doing a terrible job at that- what was there a lack of baby hormones that were delayed in being administered in his flesh? What was he supposed to do when he didn't know what to do? How was he supposed to feel when he didn't know what to feel? He felt miserable- at least that was something, though an emotion that wasn't conducive to the current situation.
Still, falsifying every feeling he had, Kotton appeased his friend with a condoling pat and, "you will do what you think is right," before submitting himself to natural doubt. He remembered making a pact with Worick that stated no ploys to riches and no exploitation of beautiful women. When had that pact fallen through?
Agitation naturally filled his veins, but he refrained from bring such irritation to the surface. Instead, he was as attentive as ever to his friend who was seriously in the pits of self-dubiety and self-consciousness.
"I just-"
Out of nowhere Kotton said, "Life is full of mysteries and things that force us to face things we aren't ready to face. It's important we use what we know to defeat these random encounters and not let them win against us and our natural state of reservation.
Worick looked up at him with glassy eyes and managed a smile. "Okay."
"Okay."
"Okay."
That was there code and it meant that no matter how bad things got, there would always been some silver lining to look forward to. Or so Kotton hoped.