Grenadine

Sitting in the storage unit of an interior designer’s nightmare, I dream of 1920’s Sea Breeze where I swim in Marina Blues and sink deeper into Coral Bells. In the depths of Granata, I always end up drowning in Amaryllis.

I’m the blood orange bow of a Tequila Sunrise, tied up in Paradise. Wrap me up in Butter Rum and deliver me to Tawny Port. I’ll wake up in a pool of Pink Lemonade, my tongue tingling with electric flows of hot lava. That seems to happen when crushed red pepper meets chocolate liqueur. And that’s why they call me Grenadine.