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In the End, It’s the Details That Last
Shackleton’s Endurance and the archaeology of the heart
Along with the whiskey, she brought a little jug of water
“This is pretty ferocious stuff,” she said as she set the drinks down on the table, the thin silver chain around her neck casting a faint shadow over a delicate collarbone visible under her uniform black shirt. “I thought you might want some water to calm it down a little.”
“Thanks.”
But I can handle my spirits. Over the years, I’ve sampled everything from exquisite tipples distilled from the tear ducts of angels to the roughest well poison ever to curdle in a plastic jug. Water down your whiskey, and where does it end? Next thing you know, you’re shaking sachets of saccharine into your tea before going home to have sex with a plastic doll. Give me the real thing. Even if it hurts. Must be the Catholic in me.
And then I took a gulp of Shackleton’s whiskey, and sucked in air tinged with fire, the burning branching through my chest like the lava flows of Mount Erebus carving channels through a wasteland of rock and ice.
Ferocious stuff indeed.
