Dom took the glass from her, the contents changing again. This time a vibrant green that took on a frosty façade as he swirled the alcohol inside. Brandy was for houseplants, absinthe was for refined palate. And those who didn’t mind the licorice flavor and mild hallucinogens. He took a sip, letting it sit on his tongue a moment before letting it slide down his throat. Jesus fucking Christ, he’d made it a little strong. He definitely didn't make a face afterward.
At least the mortician would have no trouble embalming him later.
“I bet you would,” he didn’t miss the connotation. He was the master at changing the subject to ease the bruised ego. He always let her down gently, but it never worked. He leaned that impressive frame down to whisper to her, “Your mom was showing me your drawings. Mrs. Zaharia, huh? Sera, age thirteen.”
“You still draw? You were pretty good,” Dom gave her a playful nudge with his arm, but kept a respectful distance.