by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin
It was fascinating like an old melody, the type that runs up and down your spine and sends you back to unlock some golden secret memory. Every time Harry prepared cocktails for her, he appeared possessed by a rhythm from another era – just a trace of Cole Porter – a dancer on a very thin line, teasing her addiction with a deliberate shimmy of his shaker. He had that grip on her – she knew she wasn't an alcoholic, really – something animal never quite satiated that kept her at the bar late into the night: drinking up his wondrous elaborate concoctions but even more so drinking up the sight of him, the glow of his energy, the sensuality of his moves. An inebriating tango, a smouldering salsa of vodka, cream and tribal beat. A swirling world that sucked her in with colors and special rhythms, night after night. It was only later - much later - after she had been rushed to the hospital that it was discovered that Harry laced his cocktails with heroin.
6S - C3
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