Tsipouro dance

The glass is thick and smooth. Cold sweat slides down the sides, coating my hand as I raise it for yamas.

   The liquid inside is a foggy white like watered-down milk. My ice has already melted. I let my upper lip barely touch it, faking a sip before sneakily sliding my glass over to Josh. He drinks quickly to hide the fact that he’s drinking or two and I am able to return to my sweet, familiar wine instead of the burning atomic bomb that is tsipouro.

   Dancing begins. A fast bouzouki and melodic guitar signals for us to approach the dance floor. The men take turns dancing around a full glass of the alcohol, showing off their skills.

   The naturally outgoing Josh, made even more so with the confidence of alcohol, takes his turn in the center flailing his arms and spinning legs.

   The music speeds up, the music is a higher pitch. Josh drops to his hands and attempts to pick up the frosty glass with just his mouth and drain it.

   A dainty crunch is barely heard over the music and Josh is now holding his mouth, laughing. He cut his lip when he bit straight through the thick glass.

   He is unembarrassed. In fact, he is proud. Later, he will fall asleep holding yet another glass and that will shatter too. He won’t even wake up. He is in a tsipouro-enduced, blissful, sleep.


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