Patron Silver

Like liquid lightning slipping down my throat. Just the smell intoxicates, leaves me in anticipation. Salivation. Indignation that I have to wait to tilt the shot glass toward my lips. Salvation as it clouds my tongue clear. As its silvery threads arc across my tongue and slide ever so slowly down my throat. Tongue searches in vain for trickles of lightning dew remaining in the glass. Hand reaches for neck of bottle and crashes another sliver of silver into the slippery sieve. And the storm surges again.