I drop by the local liquor store to pick up a bottle of Mellow. The sky is gray. I’ve never been to this spot—as local as it may be. 

The clerk stands at the register. His arms, like his torso, are long and gangling. I think of a greeting, but he says nothing and looks at something behind the machine.  

Saved me the trouble, I think, though I feel saddened.  

The store is small and ugly. The tiling, however, is pristine. Not many soles have tread here. The selection of liquor is meager. I am the only shopper. A peculiar flavor forms on the back of my tongue. It tastes all too familiar. 

The whiskey section is in the back. Everything is priced much higher here. Five-to-ten-dollar markups on any bottle I recognize and know the usual price. I tend to shop at the Big Store by the highway. My gut stirs as my attention returns to the curious taste that stains my tongue. 

I continue to scan the prices on the bottles. Pinpricks of heat rise along the back of my neck. I should’ve gone to the Big Store by the highway. 

A round mirror hanging from the corner of the ceiling catches my eye. The clerk and I are in full view. He appears far away, but I think he is watching me. 

“Need help finding anything?” calls the clerk from his post. 

“No, thank you,” I say.  

He must’ve realized I’m not here just to browse. Though how strange would it be for someone to enter a liquor store and not buy anything? Maybe a masochistic, recovering alcoholic with incredible restraint?  

I am older than the drinking age, yet I feel fraudulent whenever I purchase. I don’t even look very young. As I see myself in the mirror, I see the reflection of someone who is tall and broad, with years of strained thoughts having prematurely aged the face. Is my hair thinning? 

I look away. There’s the bottle of Mellow. It has a markup but still is cheap. I’m not happy, but it’s fine.  

I pick the bottle up and head to the register. The clerk straightens up. I realize he speaks with an English accent. He doesn’t card me. 

“Do you like Mellow?” he says. “No one ever buys it, but I’ve heard it’s pretty good.” 

“Yeah, I enjoy it. My bartender friends swear by it."  

I don’t have any bartender friends, but I did read that many bartenders enjoy it. 

“Have you tried it?” I ask. 

“Oh, God no!” he says, as he contorts his face and types the marked-up price into the register. “I can’t stand whiskey!” 

“Then what do you drink? Gin?”  

My cheeks redden as I realize my prejudice. 

“Oh, why, I hate gin even more! Can’t stand the stuff,” he says. 

I laugh, somewhat nervously. I look down at the dirty tiling and see my car idling outside of the window. I leave it running when I expect to be in and out. 

“Then what do you drink?” I ask. 

The clerk’s voice is not excited but vehement—perhaps even frustrated. 

“Orange juice!” he says. “And an occasional margarita!” 

“Oh?” 

He reads the confusion on my face. He decides to lend me an explanation. 

“I’ve found it wise not to be fond of liquor if I’m to own a liquor shop.” 

“That’s smart,” I say. “Don’t want to drink the supply, right?” 

I cannot tell if he is happy with my response. He only allows an affirmative groan and nods his head.  

I pay and leave. 

The gray sky lingers as I return to my car. I think about the few dollars I would have saved at the Big Store by the highway. The distinct taste continues to coat my tongue. I almost know what it is. 

The next time I need a bottle, I return to the local liquor store. It is still ugly and small. The tiling? Pristine.  

The clerk sits at a desk stowed in the corner, behind the register and in front of the window. As I walk by, he looks at me quickly, turns away, then looks quickly at me once more.  

We do not talk this time. I purchase and leave: an experience no different than the Big Store by the highway, apart from the markups. 

I walk to my car, and I see the clerk return to the desk by the window. He sits down and does not see me watching. The familiar flavor returns and sits on my tongue. I know what it is now. It tastes of orange juice—both bitter and sweet. 

I haven’t gone back. 

Chase Correll hails from Texas, but he does not think of himself as part of that granfalloon. He is very bad at writing about himself, and all of his writing is about himself. Sort of. He is married to a wonderful, caring soul who is always his first reader.