Peat Moss Water

​I had turned twenty-one two weeks ago.
This occasion however was marred due to my deceit of the liquor store proprietors I had been visiting for over a year previous. Once they saw my true ID, they learned they knew was an impostor.

Trust had been broken. I had put their business in jeopardy. Perhaps if I had not been so friendly. Or found myself there every Friday and Saturday things would have been different. 

After a birthday celebrated by drinking have a handle of Wild Turkey 101 and breaking my eyeglasses while a blizzard stormed outside,  I found myself back within the shelves.

I was here to mend a relationship; albeit one that caused a few to wonder if I had an issue.
A girl once told me it is not normal for your liquor store to be as friendly as I was with them. 

I decide to begin the mend by purchasing a bottle of something expensive.
I made a living off working as a gardener in between classes so I had a budget. 

I see a bottle with a cylindrical case behind it. 
"How do you pronounce that?"
He owner looks at me with annoyance.  "La Frog."

I reach and pull the bottle down. I enjoy the green hue of the glass. The label is simple.
This price won't hurt too much.

I reach for a sealed cylinder of the scotch as I replace the display bottle.
This will be the most expensive bottle I will purchase for a very long time. 

I walk up and place it on the counter. A peace offering presented with currency.

"Do you even know what this tastes like?"
"Nope."
"Oh you'll enjoy it" he says with a laugh.

I should have been more concerned. His laughter comforts me that the relationship can be salvaged.

A year previously I worked at a classical music festival at Colby College.
It was there I was introduced to my first glass of scotch, Glenlivet 18.
Savagely I downed it back as if it was a shot. My host's eyes lit with fury.
I was properly scolded.

Another glass was poured and babysat as I was taught how to appreciate scotch.
A lesson I have never forgotten. 

I invited my friends over to partake in the scotch I had bought.
I pull the cork off the bottle's mouth. A conductor steps to the podium.
I pour two fingers. The strings being and slowly crescendo.
We clink glasses. The harpsichord enters
The smokey smell should have warned me. "Slainte" 

Immediately the two of them start gagging.
"No." that's all they say as they put their glass down.

I fall in love with the taste. It is Vivaldi's Storm.
I spend the night sipping it slowly and enjoying the complexities. 
Love at first sip.

A few weeks later I find myself ordering it again.
"La-Froyeeg" the bartender corrects me.