Melting ice cools warm hands. If they just paid attention. I look out of the window at the trees pushing against the sky. The sun bleaches everything it touches. I sip at the whiskey, warm and cool.
Droplets slide down the glass, unheeded.
Rivulets and rings on a polished wooden table. The reflections gleam and distort. Of course, we're not really friends. He shrugs, refreshing my empty glass. The trees are still there.