The Cost Of A Drink

I take a quick peek at my watch. A quarter ‘til two. Just late enough for the sun to saute me in my own juices. But still early enough where there’s a good chance that I might not get a bullet inserted in my brain, if I hurry and find what I came to this despair pit to retrieve.

If I wasn’t such a dirty hooker all the time, I probably wouldn’t even be in this position right now. All it took was a smile, a chiseled chest, and four pitchers of Long Island iced teas to get me here digging through this love letter to all things rust. (Seriously, how does a leather seat rust?)

I was at Digger’s on Tuesday night, like usual, when he offered to buy me a drink. I’m not one to say no to a drink or two. It’s a spiritual thing.

After a couple of drinks, he told me he hadn’t met anyone like me in a while. I could’ve told him that.

Robb with ‘two b’s’, he told me. Being me, I couldn’t help but look at him and those arms that were no stranger to serious work and think of what I wanted to do with his two b’s.

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