Whiskey Sour

I’ve been caught in my whiskey sour, not really feeling like myself today. My co-workers said I looked tired. My friends said I looked like shit. I woke up shitty, went through the day shitty, and now I’m ending it shitty.

But at least I have a drink.

My favorite bar has a nice ambiance. It’s very cozy but swimming with locals. If you want to yak it up, there’s people there to do it. If you want to drink alone, though, it’s the perfect place to be. Tonight I want to drink alone.

The bar plays old black and white movies. on a T.V. up in the corner. Tonight, they’re playing the old ’50s version of The Fly. I want to be lost in my whisky sour, but something about the movie has me entranced. Even though it’s muted and just there for show, I can hear the little man in the web screaming “Help me! Go away!” to the spider about to chomp of his head and suddenly it’s like my entire day flips up through my nose, all in the form of whiskey sour. It burns like a mother, but I keep laughing.

“Are you okay?” the bartender asks, clearly concerned that I’d cracked.

“Oh. No,” I chuckle, putting a napkin up to my nose. “Don’t worry. I’m just tired.”

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXI

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