sketch (friday night and the feeling's right edition)

"Gut-check time," said my friend Cliche Jim.

"Whatever. Shot me," I shot at the bartender, who whiskeyed a rocks glass.

"Gonna lay my game down. Like a rolling stone."

"Hella stuffyou," my buddy Clem snapped from under a Bailey's and 'Schlager.

Across the horseshoe bar, three ladies rouged and ready in tube tops on a June Friday were glancing at us with a little too much come-hither for coincidence. We were Joe Friday'd in collars and cuffs, shoepolished. They got the drinks we'd ordered them and winked some thank-yous.

"Alright, let's do this," said eager Jim.

"Tippity tap-tappin' some tonight," said redeyed Clem.

"You go," I said, "and send back the redhead."

"Shannon, right?" said Clem.

The two cruised, yawing, through the filling meatbuyers' floor. There was an exchange of smiles and, jiggling, a single returner. I nudged my empty into ready position near the wells.

"How're you tonight?"

She was great. Just opened a new position at the office. Six quick months to a deadend promotion, sure. Her sister had a baby. Maybe she'd have one. Did I want to get high? She'd love a Bacardi and Diet first. Rum is a sexy drink; it feels better without a condom. I drained my last one quick when her straw gurgled. Her heels clickity clack loud on the pavement in the parking lot and I hoped she had HIV.


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