He rolled the empty shot glass in his callused hands, feeling the light pressure against the pads of his fingers. The burning liquid had already traveled down his throat, several times, and it was now that the pleasant sensations overwhelmed him. He felt the slight burn in his mouth, the grainy wood against his forearms, and the cool small weight of the glass, and wanted more. Languorously, detached, he gripped the glass and watched the tendons stand out in his arm as it was crushed into his palm and blood ran through his fingers and stained the maple counter red.
 Attingere · Sun Feb 11, 2007 @ 05:09pm · 0 Comments |
