Flash Fiction: Distilled Conceit

The liquid I am pouring down my throat tastes like distilled conceit.

It just does, that’s why! Well, if you would hush for three minutes, I would explain it.

The glass is empty in my hand now, but there’s a film of liquid slowly oozing down the side to pool in the bottom. It’s like water, but with almost a creamy tint to it. And it sparkles. The residue in my mouth has lost its pop and glow, the full explosion of flavor. Now I am getting the aftertaste seeping out of the disguise. A tinge of metal, like drinking out of a flask. A bitter taste that lingers in my jaws, like kissing a viper.

Yeah, distilled conceit. I don’t care what you say; that’s just what it tastes like.

And as sour as it turns my stomach, my mouth becomes a sponge, begging for more.

Where did you find this?