The ice cube has never been formed of straight edges, geometric and precise, not to Jim's eyes, even before the whisky poured over it blurred its shape once and for all. He holds the glass up to the light, tilts it, and watches amber liquid flow over the cube. He peers past crystal glass to opaque ice and lets the shifting colors fill the emptiness of his vision.

He's drunk.

Very drunk. And Blair's not here.

And the world is just this, fire over ice, both of them numbing his body in different ways.

Blair's not here.

And he's cold.


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