The late drink

My father sometimes comes down right before going to bed. He’s wearing a black and blue two-striped robe and I can tell he just had a shower from the manly smell that comes from upstairs. He enters the kitchen and I listen to him opening the little door of the cabinet. I hear the sound of the glass and then the whisky bottle being opened; the cork thrown at the counter. He then opens the refrigerator, breaks the ice and tosses it up inside the cup. I listen to him pouring the drink and then a few moments of silence. He’s drinking it. He always overly reacts when he finishes the first gulp. He acts way too satisfied, way to confident. He then puts the glass down, closes the refrigerator and puts the bottle back in its place. 

    He turns off the light and leaves the kitchen door open so the cats can pee during the night. He goes back upstairs, into the bed, to finish his drink. My mom is already asleep and my brother also usually is. It’s only me and him. We tend to be the late owls.

    My father also does this with Porto wine. No ice. Other times he does it with sparkling water and I can listen to the released gas while he opens the can. Other times is a coke. Or a beer in a big mug. But no matter the drink, he always acts overly fulfilled. I bet he laughs inside everytime he does it. I know I do.