Misleading the Way

“Gin martini, straight up, heavy on the olives.”

“How many’s heavy?”

“I don’t rightly know. Three. No. Five.”

“Let’s agree on four, then. I gotta watch the inventory on garnishes best I can. Gin’s a-whole-nother thing.”

“You know what they used to call gin?”

“What?”

“Blue Ruin. And beer was Heavy Wet.”

“Have another, will you?”

“Well, you know, these things probably ain’t cheap. And besides, I’m going steady with another bottle of gin. Don’t want to make it jealous.”

“Gosh bless you.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Nobody sneezed.”

“I’m preparing for an unknown future.”

“Settling in, no?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps the mood’s defunct, or at least deficient in airy wonder.”

“All I notice is all I got.”

“Cherries are all picked. Better back that rig up.”

“Hedge all the bets, too. Fearlessness backs up worry’s tough-guy stance with cashless transactions of kill-or-be-buried-alive politics.”

“Hell, put the artillery away, will you? Somebody’s going to get an accidental bullet to the chops. Besides, I’ve got a heavy date coming in here in a bit.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. It just happened. She’s a tiny wisp of a thing, just under a bill, and she dresses like a Russian peasant. The kind of girl you wouldn’t think twice about hefting up over the threshold.”

“I’m getting in of there.”

“Trust me, it’s a bargain to be born this late into things. A real inert reaction to medicinal motivation. I just can’t get myself to believe that it’s butter, or whether it makes a difference, or if butter’d be better, or if not believing that it’s not butter is the better option to retreat with. And guffawing’s all I’ve got to show for it.”

“Don’t let the NSA catch you crying. Hold your phone at arm’s length. Place all the trinkets of your past in recycling containers. Be false to all senses of self, or selves, or others who categorize your delicately applied…