Cocktails by Endo: Whiskey, Neat & Peat

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

 

Home. It was Endo’s bar, whose inviting wooden walls he spent most of his time. It was the house he’d visit only to shower and sometimes sleep. It was his childhood countryside dwelling, the ghost of his grandmother calling him for dinner still sweeping by, caught in eternity in the wind over the fields. He never knew where his home had ended up. He even less expected it to feel so far away. 

His trip to Italy had been riddled with strife and revelation alike. He’d found his beloved children, and now they were all working hard to bring them home: him, his fresh boyfriend, friends, their grandmother, and even the twins themselves put in the effort to practice his language at only seven years old. 

Their grandmother had become their caretaker, just as his own had to him, and she was the one who had to break the news of his wife’s passing. It was only when he was back home that he had found a space to take it all in. Yes, he’d found his kids, and showed them every ounce of love he could until the moment they had to part again. It was within the once warm wooden walls, after his shift of heading his business, that darker things cloyed at his heart. 

 Behind his bar, he poured himself a glass of scotch. Neat. It had been a slow night in his little corner of Toshima-ku with the flourishing greenery that his daytime barista had brought in cascading down the walls. A succulent was tucked into every free corner of the tables. He’d opened it as an art bar, made evident by fliers for various galleries and sketches plastered behind and around the leaves like a high-class version of a parent’s refrigerator. 

He liked it that way. He’d built his life like this. 

He had hoped one day to show it to Miho. She’d always come and go in his life, so he never really got the chance to miss her, but knowing his shop would never be graced by her breath crumpled him. 

Endo walked upstairs, drink in worn, steel-roughened hand, and passed by his red leather couch in what was affectionately dubbed the caprese lounge for its red and white furniture surrounded by more plants. A smattering of sound equipment was left rather haphazardly around the space, which was usually packed with an audience to his small musical improvisation shows. It felt profound in its emptiness now in the late night. 

He stood again, restless. He clicked off the lights. Instead of opting for the couch, he moved to his small desk, sectioned off in a corner to pull out his notebook. He’d write her a letter by streetlight alone. 

“My wife has died. And before me. No one expected that. I find myself struggling with the idea. I talked about it a little today. I finally let myself cry about it. Slowly. 

I also struggle with the idea of mourning a great and completely underappreciated love in my life. I wouldn’t be a learned enough person to appreciate the very whole love I have now were it not for you.

“We were never much romantic partners, just damn good friends. I think you loved me. You always supported me. I’m a hellion after all. I’m just glad that by the time you left I had learned enough not to fuck it all up. 

“I got this, Babe.

“The kids, the business, myself. I got it all. I won’t fuck up this time. I missed ya, Girlie. See you at the finish line.” 

He hadn’t realized until he couldn’t see to write anymore that he was crying again, sobbing. The smell of whiskey reached out of his throat and clutched onto the cold, silent air of the place that usually held so much joy. He folded his arms on his desk and let himself cry. 

Fat, hot tears rolled down his cheeks, and in solitude he wailed and moaned. A widower, though they’d never formally married. 

When he pulled himself out of his long session of mourning, he lifted his glass. The streetlight had turned off. The first rays of sunlight kept a periwinkle glow. He found a new love in their years apart, but as he'd written, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to without the guidance of his dearest Miho. He reached for his phone to text his boyfriend, a message that anyone else might misconstrue. 

“You’re the most important thing to me, and I’m not going to fuck this up, either.” 

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