Apples. Dahlias dipped in sherry on a hot morning. Cherry tobacco cigarillos, also dipped in sherry. The empty cigar box sits in a child’s room stuffed with Monopoly money, secret notes, and an invented language with its own alphabet. The window looks out into a movie producer’s back yard; his neighbors know him as the guy who greenlighted Howard the Duck.
The mouth is both sharp and cheesy, but not the stuff of sharp cheddar. Rather it’s a beeswax stylus kept cool so it can be used to draw caricatures on a warm wax tablet. “Salty,” says Bill. Stephen and I look up quizzically to see him brushing off the crumbs of airline pretzels. “What?” he pleads, and we let it go, but Stephen shoots him a look that says we’re only letting it go this time. The back of the mouth is woody. A dark woody: think Capital Crimes and High Misdemeanors, or Annie Unlit Hall.
Finish fattens out like a pat of butter added to coffee. Bittersweet chocolate without the bitterness, sweetness, or chocolate. Dried pith of some citrus fruit used to wipe down sherry barrels. I am in a book-lined room in an Oxford don’s home and I’m not ready to leave.
The Glenfarclas 10 is sipping a martini and insulting the Collector at the end of Guardians of the Galaxy. Considerably more surprising than Stephen’s guess (“In a retirement home in Toontown?”), but a bit less than Bill’s (“Running a cartoon porn shop?”).