The smell was a hangover in itself, a reminder of those mornings (afternoons) you’d wandered into the kitchen and spotted days-old bacon on the stovetop. You knew better, but you ate it anyway, head lowered, body writhing with shame. We inhaled deeply for a few moments, letting the stench settle in.
The horrifying taste
The drink fell from the can in a concerning shade of orangey-red, like the flame of desire that had once engulfed us as we waited in anticipation. There was still hope. Until the first sip.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but perhaps none greater than this. The split second before it landed on my tongue and singed through the memories of what good things taste like, I wished for recourse, but it was too late. The drink flooded my mouth, unrelenting in its fake bacon fervor. It was smoky and sweet, like someone had boiled the Kool-Aid man over an open flame and poured the remnants down my throat.