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I take a sip of pinkish liquid – White Zin.
Will I be able to drive home now?
The goblet seems much more fun than it should be.
I am horrified by her fullness. It shocks me. Too much liquor!
My brain screams at the young waiter, who is probably new,
Does he think he is helping out an old lady without friends?
Without a home? A crone who lives under a bridge on a storm grate?
The bar and grille’s loud music no longer bothers me.
One sip of White Zin wiped out my irritation station.
Spiders who live in my spinal column scurry away for
An evening of “who cares?” We are unconcerned.
My back cord is relaxing into a pudding pop of herself.
For the first second I realize the music is Country Western
and I am not cringing. I reach for the glass goblet. The
White Zin sloshes into my mouth, with a happy war cry.
I know my mouth is now in her “ugly-fat-protruding mode”
I do not often take this mouth out in public,
But the white zin has convinced me I do not care.
I do not know these people, nor do I want to know them.
A gaggle of gabbing women two tables down are laughing now.
Someone has recently left this earth-plane. They are
celebrating tonight to honor her memory. By the time
my friend arrives, I have used up all three of the dinky
napkins, writing words willy, nilly and yon.
None make sense.
We have a lovely time, out-cackling and out-laughing
the grieving table, my friend and I. She has a liquor drink
too so she is insanely silly.
Some old geezer wanders over and says he is sitting down.
We hold firm and he falls off the seat onto the floor.
Oops. Maybe I was the one who held firm.
We promptly leave. Hug goodbye. No kissing.
I let her pull out first. She can barely see. She has
hit lots of cars. I wait for a bit.
White Zin and I are not the friends we once were.
I throw up promptly when I arrive home.
Second or third reminder to me that I should not drink alcohol.
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