Closing Time, Tortilla Flats

Shot glasses in an orderly row like pawns on an invisible chessboard: 
Patron, Herradura, Chanaco, Corazon. Sean and I too drunk 
to feign connoisseurship, more concerned with the stunning blondes 
in short black skirts, perched on barstools, crossing and uncrossing 
their willowy legs in a kind of soft-core genuflect. With Love Shack 
blasting from the stereo and the Christmas lights blinking lustfully 
in all the windows, Sean leans over and mumbles, “almost 
heaven,” and I can’t disagree. The lubricated mind coasting across 
the clear, thin ice of anejo. Their legs, we’ve overheard, beach-
tanned in the Caribbean and slickly shaven with the remaining few
extrusive hairs succumbed to hot wax. Yep, just about perfect, 
except for going home alone, walking east on Bank Street, pausing 
at the corner of Hudson and Bleecker to inhale the night-chilled gentians.

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Peter Marcus | Clock Tower Crow
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)