Lately in the afternoon when I feel the onset of boredom approaching, I reach across my desk for the bottle of Brugal 1888 that sits with other the liquors I’ve accumulated during a cold winter of booze hoarding… or was that hard boozing? I open the bottle, and from the cabinet behind me take the Match italian crystal rocks glass that I bought at Freeman’s with a gift card from an ex-girlfriend who thought I needed a haircut. I showed her who’s boss. Into this glistening piece of nostalgia I pour myself about two fingers of the aged Dominican rum. By giving the alcohol time to settle and breathe, I provide myself space for some grand moments of reflection. Being of dirty mind, this usually goes dark fast and ends with a chuckle. Isn’t it always amusing that we can vividly remember our failures, but the details of being awesome are relatively hazy? As my mind returns to the glass, I do the necessary and take a first sip. Always tiny, the initial taste is just something to wet the whistle, and after 30 seconds the second sip happens, massive, almost more of a pull. With the oaky rum having sufficiently warmed my face, I move the glass back behind the keyboard and look out the window to the north, where the profile of the UN glows rosily in the falling day. It is in these moments that often I wonder whether other people take pleasure in having a drink sometimes in the late afternoon at their desk, or if they’re even allowed to. I then look back at the monitor in front of me, my monitor, and curse the fact that I’m chained to a desk and not to a bar in the Caribbean. The third sip though, takes me there, and with a warming glow I finish the day on island time.