“This one is young,” I said. “Full of fire. No subtlety. It immediately wants you to know it’s there.”
I poured a different scotch, caramel-coloured, rich as pirate gold.
“Now this one… this is 31 years old. And sure, it doesn’t punch so hard so fast, but it’s got depth. It’s a smooth, experienced dram. Near endless layers. Every time you sip, you find something new. What do you think?”
Magpie contemplated the two glasses.
“I think you’re creating a laboured metaphor to try and make out your body’s slow deterioration is a good thing.”
“Well, yeah. Did it work?”
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