You shouldn’t even be holding this. Not with hands like yours. Not with thoughts like these.
But the moment it’s poured—glowing gold, holy and trembling—you feel it: that tight pull behind the ribs, that ache below the belt. The first sip is lime-blossomed ecstasy. The second is penance.
It tastes like a hymn sung under breath—green apple, wet slate, something floral trying not to bloom. And then it turns: a touch of sugar, a lick of acid, a sharp metallic finish like biting your own lip during confession.
You drink. You regret. You reach for more. Forgiveness was never the goal.
Pair with buttered scallops, Thai green curry, or honey-drizzled figs eaten on your knees. Whatever brings you closer to sin.
