Tanqueray and Tonic

At some point between there and here, I forgot that I had preferred Tanqueray to Sapphire; gin—that clear, bright, almost medicinal-tasting spirit that I've grown to love over the last several years—long after the forced imbibes of rum and coke, the teenage experimentations with peach schnapps in styrofoam party cups. After I figured out how to hold my liquor, to stay with one kind of drink all night and to pace myself, to alternate with glasses of water (and, not to mention, not to give head when I've had too much to drink, thank you Peanut Gallery) there was gin. And after gin and the easy refreshment of the gin tonic, there came the far more complicated martini and all its shiny stainless steel shakers and olives without pimientos and "careful not to bruise the gin" and the snobby ex-housemate who introduced me to the fine French vermouth that I now can't live without. If gin is my adulthood, then martinis are the irritating but useful rigidity that sets in with age, and gin tonics the breezy self confidence of maturity.

Nat loves gin, too. But she prefers Bombay Sapphire, in the elegant blue bottle with straight, uncomplicated geometric lines, etchings of juniper berries and a centuries-old array of the perfect blend of spices on the side. And, rather than the traditional wedge of lime, she prefers lemon. And I learned to love this combination, too, not simply out of obligation, or even for the quite pleasing economy of ordering, in endless repetition on nights out, "Two gin tonics with Sapphire and lemon." Sapphire is as relentlessly smooth as Tanqueray is jagged. It perfectly matches dry and cool sensations and feels luxurious and icy in the throat. I love Sapphire because it is so very her, and I've always been a fan of the lemon, anyway, so it never seemed to matter that much. But, as it is in long term relationships, one loses some sense of self, and the symbolism abounds even in my choice of gin: how I've given myself up, ever so slightly, in love.

How long will it be before I'm not reminded of her? The times, when we'd be at a dance club (not often, actually, but enough times that I've memorized the routine) when we'd both be carrying our low-ball glasses of gin, tonic, lemon wedge, and ice, and someone would remark at how our drinks glowed in the dark of the bar (have you seen it?--it's this fluorescent blue glow that radiates off a gin tonic under the blacklighting) and she would always explain, with authority and grace, "It's the quin-eene."

The other night, we hung out at a bar, the first time we were social together in a group of friends since the breakup (it'd been less than three weeks). I arrived on the late side, and she was already there, chatting with a couple friends up at the bar. We said our hellos in a befitting way, I guess; we hugged, but it didn't feel as warm between us as I thought it should have. I caught up a bit with the other two folks while she went up to the bar to order her gin tonic (before, of course, we'd have arrived together, and one of us would've been ordering for us both. Every minute aspect of our interaction screamed out to me as abnormal, unnatural, not right. I wanted to tell her she was doing it wrong--that she should've been ordering for me, too. When I ran into an old friend later in the evening, my immediate impulse was to introduce her, but I didn't--these conventions of "partner behavior" have become unnecessary. When I brought the conversation around to an in-joke we'd shared, I felt the eggshells jabbing into my feet).

Nat and the two friends joined the others in back, and I took my turn up at the bar. I ordered my gin tonic, of course, and I asked for Tanqueray in my drink. The thought and action occurred simultaneously so the words rolled off my tongue before I could make the decision for myself. I greeted the bartender, asked him how his night was going, and immediately after he said, "What can I gettcha?" I said I'd have a gin tonic with Tanqueray. Period. Not "with Sapphire," not "with lemon." And it was through this subconscious assertion of preference that I knew I was not just a casualty of this breakup, but a body who's been liberated in even very subtle ways.

Yours,
Bree

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