Thursday, October 27, 2011

Oktober the Twenty-Seventh: Specialty of the House

If it seems like I'm spending alot of time writing about bars, that's because my new NaNoWriMo project takes place in and around a bar, and I'm getting into that mindframe. Or would be, if I could get me a Manhattan.

 Peace, Mari

Specialty of the House

By Mari Kozlowski


 The pool of beer on the wood in front of him was widening, and he grabbed a thick rag from under the bar to sop it with— it took just one good, slow wipe. He cleaned the last traces away with a damp cloth and set the clumsy guy up with a fresh microbrew.

“There you go.” He was down at the other end before the guy even noticed or thanked him. Happy Hour was hopping.

“What can I get for you lovely ladies this evening?” he schmoozed.

 The gaggle of girls came in on Tues. and Thurs. after their spinning class, to undo all the calories burned with chocolate martinis and fried ravioli. Now they heaved their chests onto the bar and gave him flirty smiles. He’d wanted to fuck one of them for months, but it wasn’t a good idea. Or so he told himself when they left, every week.

“Something spicy, John?” said the tall one; Sheryl, he thought. Her tits were incredible.

“I got something spicy for you, sure” he said, and the girls all laughed and moved like they’d been tickled. They loved to torture him.

“How about a Cajun martini?” he offered, and showed them the jar of whole jalapenos the drink got garnished with. All four of them shook their heads.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to see us try to choke one of those down…” the little blonde one said.

“They do have a certain shape, now you mention it,” he said, “but trust me, mine is easier to swallow.”

"Whoo! Listen to this, huh, Sheryl?” the blonde one said. “I bet yours is longer and redder, too, right, John?”

“I don’t like to brag. Let’s just say it’s twice as hot but it won’t make you cough afterwards.”

“Why don’t you set us up with those nice mango margaritas, instead?” Sheryl said.

“Cowards.” John got to work, tossing booze and sour mix into the blender. Maybe he’d stepped out a little too far, but they’d forget it by their third drink.

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