“What are you afraid of?” She returned with a glass, its contents black and mildly sweet-smelling.
“What’s that?”
“Mitch, love.” She put the glass on the table in front of him and laid a hand on his forehead.
“I’m afraid of being hurt. There, satisfied?”
“That you’re hurt and afraid, no. That you trust me enough to tell me what’s hurting you and making you afraid, yes.”
“What’s in the glass?” He asked again, not willing to expose his emotions any further.
“Black liquorice.”
He eyed the glass suspiciously.
“It should help take the edge off, like you wanted.”
He looked up at her. “How?”
She retook her seat. “Black liquorice is supposed to reduce a man’s potency.”
“You mean I won’t be able to get it up?”
“Mitchell Benjamin, don’t be crude.”
“Sorry.” He picked up the glass and gave its contents a sniff. “Doesn’t seem too bad.” He took a sip. It wasn’t bad tasting either, so he took another, larger, drink.