I Smell Trouble

Sittin’ at the bar with time to kill. Nothing to think about except my own damn life. Then there she was like vinyl potpourri. Or devilled Geminis. I smelled whisky lemon drops wafting through the door. Who’s that bombshell walking through the door? Who is that wicked sinful poisoning my vision? Brother, this can’t be real.

Sittin’ at the bar in my favorite seat with the hole in the side (so I know it). I always get her early and I had too much to drink. All I was thinkin’ about was my own damn problems and there she was in leather thigh-high boots like a dominatrix principality. Who’s that night terror walking through the door? Why’s she drilling holes in me with her eyes? Sister, you can’t be for real.


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XX

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