“It’s third gin, third vermouth. You can’t do anything right!” she says with a smile more precious than diamonds, pushing me away from the kitchen island to perform her witchcraft with bitters and gin. I don’t protest, and quietly sink back into the couch. Proportions don’t matter to me. Nothing does. She’ll be gone in an hour and never return again. I’ve been living this life of a silent observer for the past three years. They come and go, telling me I can’t do anything right, asking where I keep the frying pan, or if there’s a takeaway nearby. It’s a beautiful prison I’ve locked myself in, and I pay a handsome amount in cash every month to a man named Miguello. She brings me the glass and sits beside me, looking for the remote. I just hope we’ll watch something longer than life. But we never do. Nick Struutinsky is an art history explorer, producer, and writer based in Serbia. When he’s not working on a new script, he publishes short stories on Medium. …