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Irish Whiskey. Not Jameson. Not Teeling. Sexton. Strong and toasty, honeyed fruit stinging his nose. Sweet sponge cake. Soft, so soft, sopping with booze, oozing into his throat. Coconut Cruzan. Flavored Dominican rum, the scent of an island breeze. Beeswax, from a birthday candle, crackling between his teeth.
He'd know that rum cake anywhere. Warm and heady, half-Irish, half-Dominican, with the promise of a good time. Just like the man himself.
In all the time they'd lived together, Frankie had never had a sweet tooth--- preferred heat and spice, salt to sugar--- but whenever he went home to his mama's, he'd come back with a Tupperware of this. It was what she made every birthday, every holiday, every time her baby visited. It was the stuff of Frankie's childhood memories, the magic of his sweetest moments baked into a bundt and soused with sweet booze--- a shot of Cruzan for his 'lita, his mama's mama; a shot of Sexton for his grandmam--- and served to him in increasingly large slices as he aged up and learned to hold his liquor.
Kostya could almost see him, coming through the door with the container swinging in a plastic bag, digging a spoon out of the drawer, leaning over the kitchen counter to shovel it into his mouth, no plate, no chair, just a look of ecstatic nostalgia on his face.
Y'all can have the foie and lobster, he once said, scooping crumbs into his mouth. This is my death row wish. Want a bite?
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