L. gulped down the whole glass of his favorite amber colored whiskey in on shot. He felt the oddly familiar warm sensation travel down his throat and spread like a warm wave in his stomach. He swiftly reached for the bottle to pour himself another drink.
L. wondered briefly why he even bothered with a glass, but concluded that he was not a savage and drinking straight from the bottle would just be another low for him. And this day was already full of so many low points that there was no need to add another one.
He raised the glass to his mouth intending to repeat the previous scenario and down also this glass in one gulp. But then he thought better of it. L. paused and looked at the dark alcohol temptingly waiting in the glass.
Funny, he thought, her eyes are the same color. The color of whiskey. L. chuckled to himself. He closed his eyes in exasperation and angrily threw the glass into the fireplace. The shattering glass and crackle of flames echoed throughout the room.
Damn, he mused, she even had to spoil his favorite drink. Ellroy had it right. It’s always woman’s fault. She is always at the root of the problem.
“Cherchez la femme” – whispered L. staring into the furiously burning fire. – “Cherchez la femme”.