As the cold Canadian winter made its journey from February into March, two things were constant: Neither my relationship with Elizabeth nor our progress on the Absolut account at work were proceeding smoothly. The dynamic between Elizabeth and me was at best described as “combustible.” There was lots of fights and misunderstandings, lots of jealousy, and lots of spite. How we came together to begin with was no mystery – we were like magnetic forces drawn to each other, feeding off each other’s energy, drive, and libido. Soon we were spending time together independently of the expatriates, and even the Friday happy hour meetings eventually became more about Elizabeth and me, with everybody else just being there.

Sex was a natural progression. It didn’t take long. One night soon after Valentine’s Day she looked at me in one of her ever-so-sultry poses, the spaghetti strap of her camisole slightly off the shoulder, and said “You can have me now or have me later, but either way you’re gonna have me before this is through.” It didn’t take much more than that.

The problem with magnets is when you turn the opposing poles towards each other they deflect, and both are too difficult and stubborn to yield. This was unfortunately the perfect description of our relationship, if you wanted to call it a relationship. Two strong-willed people who couldn’t get along but shagged like minx as often as possible. It was the best and worst of everything one could hope for.

Work was no better. Though I’d turned the tide created during Valentine’s Day dinner and calmed things down among my co-workers and me, I couldn’t do a damn thing to save the account. None of us could. It was going down, hard and fast. Our creative lead had run out of ideas – good ones, anyway – and was intent on the sell being a merely visual thing. All the previous awards garnered by Absolut through the years wouldn’t help, in his view, when Grey Goose and Ketel One sold out the bars left and right. I couldn’t help but agree.

One night while burning the midnight oil over Thai takeout and whiskey sours it hit us – why not do both? Why not roll some award graphics in translucent silver onto the back of the bottle, still making the front visible in its trademark blue block lettering? And why not make the bottle smaller? 1.5 liter bottles are for the winos. Sure it helps behind the bar – the barback won’t have to make as many trips to the supply room – but it gives off a cheap appearance. Good things come in 750ml bottles. Take Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Makers Mark, or Vox. With those two changes in mind we were ready for the next test session.

To suggest our test sessions were some laboratory experiment using strict scientific means was a stretch. Our test sessions came in the form of nights out in bars. Three nights later, armed with a case of 750ml Absolut bottles, we set upon Therapy Lounge, a bar just west of our office and a few blocks south of the University of Toronto campus. Therapy Lounge attracted affluent crowds, crowds there to to do one thing: Drink, and drink plenty. Therapy Lounge was all business. Two floors, four bars. Most of the liquor was top shelf.

Our controlled experiment was pretty simple: We’d set up some prominently displayed bottles of Absolut vodka behind the bar, usually at eye level, and stock the bars with the remaining supply. We didn’t bill the night as a special promotion for Absolut, and no special signage was added inside the bar. Additionally, anybody here from work was forbidden from drawing a drinker’s attention to our vodka. We could order it for ourselves – it was recommended, actually – but we couldn’t sway a patron’s choice in any way. We simply sat and took notes. If you had come into the bar that night I would have looked like a wallflower to you. One time somebody asked me why I was watching the bar so intently and I joked that I was there to see if the liquor license was up to snuff or if the place was selling booze to minors. I noticed about twenty people leave over the next ten minutes after saying that.

The night had promising results. We’d outperformed Vox, Meridian, and Smirnoff. We’d even outdone Grey Goose. Ketel One was still kicking our ass, however. And with Ketel One’s roll-out of a citrus flavor, we were in an even deeper hole. We’d have to go back to the drawing board.
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“Damn, we’re out of wine,” said Elizabeth. She rolled her empty glass in her hand, softly stroking its stem. “You should break open a few of those airline bottles in the refrigerator,” she suggested.

That was a costly dare. I’d already received two separate bills for the honor bar when I was drinking for one, and knowing our capacities for booze, I’d likely need to take out a loan in order to pay any bill resulting from Elizabeth and I invading the bar fridge.

I rolled off the bed and took a look at myself in the mirror. The lack of sun Toronto had during winter had paled my face. My hair felt flat. I stuck out my tongue in the mirror. Purple. Pickled. This could have been the alcohol’s doing, however.

Elizabeth came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my middle, tucking her fingers into the waistband of my sweats. “You worry about your looks way too much,” she commented. “What are you going to do when they’re gone?”

“Get married,” I joked.

“You’re a charmer,” she replied, sprawling out on my bed. “Why is it that everybody thinks that marriage is for when being single has dried up? Shouldn’t it be something you are just ready for when it feels right?”

I looked at her with a puzzled look on my face. “I don’t know, but that’s an awfully optimistic sentiment coming from the self-proclaimed ‘Queen Bitch.’”

She picked up a pillow and chucked it at me. “You have a real knack for ruining the moment, you know that?” She got up and went into my bathroom. “I think it’s time for a bath…what do you think?”

“I thought it was time for more booze.”

“That goes without saying.”

I looked around for the box. A case of wine shouldn’t be hard to locate in a room my size but for some reason I was having issues. Finally I found it under the desk: The case of Mosby Sangiovese my parents had sent me to celebrate the Easter holiday. So far I’d only gone through 2 bottles, and I had promised to have the expats up to my room one evening to share some more. I’d felt bad having neglected them in the past few weeks. Even Stephen, who was staying in the same hotel and just down the hall, had become a ghost. I’d make it up to them.

I fished out a bottle and walked into the bathroom. Elizabeth was stripping down. I admired her body as she carefully took off her clothes, folding and placing them on the counter. She didn’t have any noticeable body fat, no sag, no cottage cheese. Hers was an exquisite 30 year-old’s body.

She turned around and I immediately frowned. “Do all of you let that grow out in the winter?” I asked.

She looked down. “Eh, it’s a little long, so what? Does it have to be a runway strip every time?” She submerged herself in the tub. I stood there, bottle and glasses in hand.

“You know, this is a tub for two. Are you gonna join me or just stand there holding up the wall?”

I set the bottle and glasses on the counter, then in a burst of spontaneity, grabbed the edge of the tub with one hand and vaulted myself in, t-shirt, sweats and socks still on. My ass hit the bottom – hard – with a bump as I submerged. I came up for air, my hair and face covered with bubbles.

“You’re a real asshat, you know that don’t you?” Elizabeth said.

It was one of our few tender moments.