He sat in the darkness, an unfinished glass of whiskey in his hand. James wondered who he really was? The strong man that he showed to his peers? Or the scared little boy that came out when he was alone like this or when he could let his guard down with certain individuals?
Taking another sip, he let the astringent, peppery liquid pass his lips. It was a younger whisky. Full of vibrancy like a young man. Not mature or mellowed like him. How had he put it once? He had been at a whisky tasting. A round of scotches had been served. The first tasted young like the drink that he had now. It was like a young college girl. Full of life. Raw. Not yet mature. And not something he would take home to savour. And then there was the second. Smooth. Rich flavours that played over the tongue. It was like a mature woman. Deep. Mysterious. The kind you would take home and would savour over time spent.
Was life like whisky? Could it mature into a fine vintage? And how could he relate this to himself? Could he make the shift back to what he used to be? To what he used to have?
He thought again, letting jumbled images pass almost like a cacophony of sound. He thought of the women he knew. How did they see him now? What type of man had he become?
He was coming to realise that he showed a different face, no, a different mask to those that he new. One mask for his peers, another for new people that he met, and yet another to those that he let past his guard. What was it that drew some of these people to him? That he let in and allowed to see that little boy? Who was he really?