St Moritz

His scotch on the rocks is swirling and clanking around like a bundle of bricks in an empty car boot, chilling each and every fingertip while his other hand firmly strokes the silky-smooth arm chair. The warm, blazing fire is creating sharp, acute shapes. Crackling, to the beat of the background melody, the tiny pops reminding him of the (good) times - when he hit a respectable shot on the golf course. He’s donning a smile from cheek to cheek. He's relaxed, tapping his toes, as if he were conducting an orchestra with his feet. His misses is upstairs in bed.
They saunter over to the bar, for the third or seventh time. But who’s counting. He stumbles to his left, most probably due to the excessive intake of fine quality whisky. Or maybe the liquor infused trifle from a few hours earlier. He stumbles again, only to his right this time and into one of the bar stools. It doesn't matter. The waitress sweeps around from her transient cocoon and miraculously snags the timber pew, before it hits the ground. She gently brushes his arm as she finds her feet, her foot wiggling a little due to her ill-fitting work heels. Gin, tequila, whiskies of all varieties, rum - both dark and white, vodka and cognac all gaze down on them like they’re performing on stage - in a Broadway musical. The tequila bellows loudest. Not surprisingly, they both look to one another in affirmation. Cheers, in quick succession. Followed swiftly by a swab of salt. Then hosed down by a harsh tang of tequila, like a million toothpicks piercing the back of their throats. Unknowingly it leaves a toasty warm, fuzzy feeling deep in their chests. A final blow in the procedure; a tart nip of lemon funnels down like a raging bush fire being put out by Elvis.
Paisley patterns. Beams and arc windows. Bec Hewitt. Stair. Steely bits. Greasy pizzas. Ales. Pig. Power drill. Stair. Large wooden ships. Stair. Valentino Rossi. Tacos. All come to mind, not in that order. Burb! Swipe. Nothing. Swipe again. Finally, the door groans open, he’s entered the dragon's den, like walking foolishly into a spider's web on an ineptly lit path. Her fiery breath is as potent as his fermented breath. He's in the doghouse. But what's new.