  There is a tiny bottle. Always this measured dose of whiskey for the turning of Friday night. She empties it into a tumbler, bottomed with crushed ice, discharged from the hungry mouth of the refrigerator. Then adds a spritz of soda water from their antique seltzer bottle. A relic: Gift from a friend long dead for a wedding long past. She sips her scotch and soda in front of the television, watches whatever he is watching: the middle of a game or movie, This does not matter - like walking. 
