It was one of those bewitching nights where it was uncertain if it was the end of summer or the beginning of fall. A full moon. I met an old friend for a drink.
He was waiting outside, like it was summer, but he huddled into his shirt with hands in his pockets like it was autumn. It had been years since we'd seen each other and he had grown into himself beautifully, something everyone should do.
Our catch-up began over a glass of wine, and then, like most of my magical evenings, led to whiskey. I know what you're thinking, that whiskey is an aggressive drink and can only lead to shenanigans, not mellow conversation. On this count, I must defend my beloved drink.
We tore down the walls and began speaking openly and honestly like the crowd we were with couldn't hear us. Whiskey is a truth serum and allowed a bridge to cross the gap between two friends who hadn't spoken in four years. It can give the prudence to see people as they really are, as if for the first time, and not who they used to be. It softened my sarcastic edge and cynical heart to admit that maybe he had changed. I knew I had.
The drink was over too soon, and we walked to my car with the hesitance of wearing cement-filled boots. My heart was giddy, with a dull ache at not knowing when I'd see him again.
I can't say what exactly caused this sudden change of heart. Only that some things improve with age, and make a completely different experience upon revisiting after a time. I doubt it would have made much of a difference what we drank, or what restaurant we were in, or the phase of the moon. Yet one thing was for sure. I was really glad he and I shared that whiskey.