I’m drinking Angel’s Envy tonight, and I have a question for you

I’m drinking Angel’s Envy tonight, and I have a question for you


I’m sitting here alone with an entire bottle of Angel’s Envy in front of me. And I have a question for you.

How long should it take to get over her?

She’s been gone seventeen years now and I keep thinking I’ll get over her. But I can’t get her out of my mind.

Am I crazy? Obsessed? I don’t feel crazy. I know what I had and I know I’m not going to have that again. That’s not crazy, is it?

First drink:

Angel’s Envy is an interesting bourbon. It’s finished in port wine casks. They also make a rye which I’ve had and love. But the port wine finish is their signature thing.

Oh, this stuff smells good. You gotta give it some time though. I coated a glass with a few drops and smelled that. It’s a little trick I picked up somewhere. Dear God, the wood comes out right up front for me. It’s almost like smelling sawdust. Sweet sawdust. I know that’s weird but that’s what I smell.

First sip. Too much to handle. Smooth and an interesting finish. But like all good whiskeys, you should smell and taste it. Then wait a bit and go back for seconds. That’s when the whiskey starts giving up its secrets.


You know what I remember about her? The smallest things. Things I never thought twice about when she was here but now they haunt me.

The way she moved her mouth when she talked. I know that sounds batshit crazy but she had this interesting way of moving her mouth. Sometimes I see a woman who moves her mouth kind of like she did and it just kills me.

The way she stood with her feet right next to each other. Like her legs were planted in the ground at a single point. She always stood like that. I don’t know why. But I loved it. It was her way of standing.

And her voice. It was unique. It was like she had her own private accent. Sometimes I can almost remember how her voice sounded. But mostly not. It’s just out of my reach. Just past the edges of my memory. I used to have a cassette tape from our old answering machine with her voice on it, but I lost it some years back. I keep looking for it around the house. Opening drawers I’ve opened a hundred times before. But I know it’s gone. I’d give everything I own for that tape.

Second drink:

It sits on my tongue without doing much at first. Like it doesn’t need to impress up front. Very smooth and gentle. Little bit of spice maybe. And then when I swallow it, the faintest kiss of sweet wine at the end. Not really the taste of wine, actually. More like the memory of wine, if that makes any sense.

Sweet sawdust in my nose. Gentle spice on my tongue. Then a little kiss at the end.

I fucking love this bourbon. I just do.


So here’s the deal. I don’t know if my inability to get this woman out of my mind is good, bad, or somewhere in between. I don’t know if I’m stuck in my grief or just a lucky guy who experienced true love and it changed him forever. I don’t know. But I’m getting older now. I’m fifty-five, by the way, in case you were wondering. And I think this is just how I’m going to be. She created desire in me. She made a hole in my heart shaped like her and I think that hole is just going to stay there.

I don’t give a shit either. Fuck it. I think about her every night when it’s dark and quiet and I’m trying to go to sleep. How is that hurting anyone?

Third drink:

I usually sip whiskey but I’m starting to make a dent in this bottle and I finished my third pour in two swallows. Go ahead. Take a big mouthful of Angel’s Envy. Chew it. Let it spill over the edges of your tongue. Indulge yourself. Swallow all of it in one go. See if you can make it burn and sting your throat.

You can’t. Or at least I couldn’t. No matter how much I swallowed, that little port wine kiss is always at the end.

Always there to remind you that this bourbon is not like other bourbons.

Shit. I’m going to regret like hell posting this in the morning. I can tell you that right now. I’ll read this tomorrow and cringe with embarrassment. But I have a bet with Daniel because he knows sometimes I regret what I’ve written. He says if I’ll leave everything I post for the next year and not delete any of them the morning after, he will give me a bottle of whiskey that will be the best thing I ever drank.

And I want that whiskey.