By HADLEY HUNT
When I serve Bloody Marys
On late Sunday mornings,
I sneak a straw-taste
while they await garnish.
My tongue rolls on my lips.
It may take infinite Sundays until I stop
Wincing at the spice.
Sneering at this spirited tomato soup in a highball
For eleven dollars.
The bartender huffs.
The cocktail shaker bleeds red over ice
While her fingertips blanch from the cold.
I see the dance she does with her wrists,
Turning and flipping,
Rushing and slowing down.
I’m mesmerized by the ritual.
All this work for that?
She scoops the ice into the highball.
Ice cubes clamour together into a pile, mimicking the sound of plastic bins laden with Christmas ornaments on their journey down from the attic – a symphonic lake of rich, dusty memories suspended by hooks and ribbon.
The ornaments have only felt my touch for the last five years.
When I move in closer, I see the edges of every cube caked in frost. I ski down their curved sides, disappearing into the bottom of the glass.
A shot of vodka goes into the shaker.
I remember the fiery burn that surged down my throat with my first shot. A scorching blaze that launched me into an orbit on a cool Friday evening. I found some of my closest friends that night. For a fleeting moment, they stand by my side, counting. One, two, three, and another round of shots follow.
She pours in the tomato juice.
I sit in the summer sun with my grandmother, her fingertips gently rolling as salt lands softly on dewy slices of tomato. When I look up, the pale light cloaks the sky, clouds whisper behind the trees, the wind chimes sing a story of serenity.
I longed to enjoy the taste of fresh tomatoes alongside her.
I just watched her eat instead.
A few dashes of hot sauce, some lemon juice, a bit of horseradish.
When lemon juice cascaded onto the kitchen floor, the dog darted up to taste, drawn in by the delicious opportunity to feast on a treasure from the counter’s domain. Before we could stop her, we were already smiling in boisterous laughter as her snout twitched and she sneezed a storm of citrus mist. The dark pools of her eyes shimmered when we wiped away the zest residue, exchanging the acidic juice for a savoury treat – turning her into a puppy again for one sweet, innocent second.
She tosses in some ice cubes.
A sheet, then a quilt, then a comforter, then the weighted blanket, all cloaked by the heated blanket plugged into the outlet. Outside, the wind whirls, rattling my walls, and snow creeps in at the corners of the windowsill, yet I am just out of reach of the icy temperatures. Safe and warm in the bed that has cradled me since I first learned the meaning of New England cold.
The shaker flies up and down in her palms.
He noticed my trembling hands as they rested on my knees. Gently, his fingers found mine, his thumb caressing my palm, and we lingered in the touch. Holding each other. So much was said with the way our words struggled in our throats, silent, imprisoned by smiles.
I wish it were like this forever.
She strains the cocktail over ice.
And I rest a celery stalk and olives on the red surface.
My last table pays the bill.
I get one shift drink when I clock out.
I may not be used to spice,
Or savoury drinks,
But I think the choice is obvious.
Writer | Hadley Hunt ’27 | hhunt27@amherst.edu
Editor | Abby Frey ’29 | afrey29@amherst.edu