Possibly like his own irresistable liquor, that he yearned to taste on his lips at every hour. Each kiss of the rim of the glass sent fire through his veins.

But this wasn't brandy, nor whiskey, nor gin. This was you.

He should be over you now, after a year — but it's not as though you've not seen each other during that time, you just didn't have that old label on it.

And now, as he sits perched at the bar of a lazy pub, late into the night, his fingers itch toward the cell phone beside his stout glass.

Once again, he's crawling back to you. When was the last time? A month ago?