At ten past five, Monday to Friday, he’d walk into the bar.
So at nine past, I’d lay out the shot glass and the bottle of whisky. I could
have poured out the single shot he had on Monday through Wednesday, but it was
a rhythm we’d developed, he’d pour his own shot, drink, pay, leave. Thursday
was two shots, and Friday was three.
Usually.
When he put up his hand after the third shot, then poured another,
and another, I got a little worried. He stopped at ten, then paid up, and
muttered under his breath.
“Happy Birthday, Me.”
No comments:
Post a Comment