It's Friday night in the Garden of Eden.
Here comes, Steve. He hates himself so he drinks 10 cranberry juices. His pee is clear but as for his conscience... He picks up a small orchard of limes from the tray and squeezes them in his fist. Rumor has it, he's angry at his brother.
Brian, recently released from the clutches of rehab, skewers lemons and oranges on toothpicks like a fruit kebab, and sucks on them until his teeth turn rancid prompting a visit to the dentist and hopefully the novocaine.
George has been told by the doctor that his liver has been chopped into a million little pieces by the ax-wielding, Jack Daniel. Always, he's looking over his shoulder. But no one is there. His misfortune hung on a woman who made the mistake of being kind to him once, years ago. He stalked her, the police came, he decided to drink himself to death. He's almost there. The hand of fate pours him another.
Calvados, covered in dust, I pick up the bottle. My fingerprints on the stem. It's been a few eons since someone has ordered the bar's apple liqueur. So, I drink it, and soon I feel like a leaf on the Tree of Knowledge. And I think about the wind and how it blows. Some are taken far away, and settle beside the wall of the forgotten, leaving behind an ass print on a bar stool that tempts another.
I'm waiting for Grace. She will be absolutely amazing when she comes.
Have some Calvados with me, beautiful, I shall say. For all tomorrow's parties.