He's always preferred whiskey. The cheapest shit he could get, even now that he had the money to splurge for the brands he never could afford when he first started hitting the bottle.
She couldn't stand it, her nose wrinkling at the taste. She always said he ought to stop wasting his money on that rotgut, but it fell on deaf ears. She must have realized it, seeing as she settled for frowning when she found it in the liquor cabinet these last couple of years, as if it would taint the champagne by sharing the space.
She always bought the same brand, some fancy shit he'd never heard of before they met. He'd never bothered to try it himself, but it was the only bottle staring back at him, the last of the whiskey passed between calloused hands a thousand miles away.
He poured the champagne into a flute that felt foreign in his hands. He'd never hear the end of it if she came home to him drinking straight from the bottle.
He didn't bother taking his drink back to the living room, where he'd feel just as out of place on her pristine, uncomfortable furniture as the glass looked against his chapped lips.
He vaguely remembered her saying the champagne was sweet some years ago, back when they still pretended to be interested in each other's affairs, but the taste it left on his tongue was bitter.