Ficlets

He relaxed into the chair, sinking into the timeworn padding, the cushions forming into their familiar shape. He swirled the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler cradled in his careworn hands. This was the one indulgence that he allowed himself. A small tot before bed. In the quiet time between lights out and the first cries of the homesick.

He was a scotch man. The peaty overtones of the Islay malts and the salty undertones of a Speyside were somehow directly connected to the parts of his brain which allowed him to relax. Nothing was quite like the first sip of Tormore, or the long lasting euphoria following a good Ardbeg.

He glanced at his dressing table, at the decanter of liquid gold oblivion and the companion tumbler to the one on which his consternation was currently focussed. He had been the victim of pranks before now. Teenage hijinks which he could always dismiss as harmless. This however was beyond the pale. Someone had taken his comfort, his tranquility, and replaced it with whiskey!