Massive sandstone blocks, slick with ice and precisely cubic, glistened white against the black slush of Lake Michigan. Panting cold clouds into the night, I sat among the sharp cubes and my sweaty body was a microscopic speck perched on the salty rim of an abandoned margarita. The rocky shoreline shone crystaline and jumbled where the lake’s icy sluice abutted it and I could almost taste the crunch of salt. Out in the blackness, chunks of pulpy ice floated listlessly in a once-frozen abyss, melting gently, forgotten at this late hour.
My chest was hot with the burn of the winter air and I thought to dive in. Drinking it deep, I would feel the cold heat of its sweet triple sec while firey fingers of tequila and lime swam down my throat, straight to my heart.
But Lake Michigan is no margarita, and my heart is already feverish, overheated by so many hot fingers in its vicinity.