A Taste of Freedom

I slipped back inside from the avenue, leaving the horologist's ticking shop behind. Five years of constraint ended today; the evening called for a statement, not an adjustment. I hopped up to the bar cart where a golden metal swizzle stick rested beside an empty crystal coupe. Gripping the cold stem with both hands, I tapped it firmly against the cut rim. It struck with a crisp, triumphant ring that filled the room like a brass fanfare. I leaned back against the polished mirrored tray, hands resting composed on my lapels, letting the resonance announce my return.