Conversation’s Lack

The Millicent Rose Dining Saloon was full, or almost at Max Capacity, with the usual array of in situ bastards and sly, wiry gabardine strangers who buttoned-up onehanded and caused a mild ruckus in the borderline unusual gripes of their later evenings.

“Per se, this is just to…say, that is.”

“What or where was your order, fella?”

“That’ll be Green River Straight Bourbon with a few ounces of Old Fitzgerald Bottled in Bond on the side, for a favor, please.”

“You don’t got the lemons to squeeze. On this, I’m that far apart. You don’t see.”

“Exclamation point.”

“You don’t say.”

“I surely never would. Ah. Well. Shit. Waiter. There’s an ice cube in my drink, friend-o!”

“That will not do. And then the enemy turned a silent, pellucid cheek to the meeting’s rowdy, roiled efforts. And inside our thoughts we all stayed, passively checking the time.”

“Do my dishes, and I’ll do yours.”

“Mighty effervescent of you, Bubbles.”

“In my rear…”

So, there was a shuffling of personal belongings, and most folks made baggage-handling requests too — stuff like, “Well, we’re still very far, extremely far, apart on major issues, but I’m not totally…