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.