“Is that your story?” The drunk leaped from the stool and sprinted to the door, a hand latched over his mouth. As the door opened and closed, Mike found Elle still by the pool table, cue in hand and small hips in the air as she aimed her shot. A cigarette sizzled in an amber ashtray placed on the pool table’s rail. Elle kept one blue eye opened as she struck and broke the triangular platoon of billiards. Elle thumped the butt of her cue onto the hardwood floor. “Fuck it to hell,” she said while a lanky, shaggy man chortled. The charming rogue sunk the 2-ball, striped, into a side pocket, chortling and winking at Elle. “Fuck you,” she said as she smiled and stroked her stick. Mike failed to notice the drunk’s return; he wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached for Mike’s discarded glass of water. “Can I get a swig?” Mike nudged the glass toward the drunk. “How are you feeling?” “Brand new,” the drunk said. He gulped the water and belched. “Back to my old self.” “So,” Mike said as he loosened his tie, “how about that story?” “What story?” “Never mind.” “Aw man, did I promise a story? I owe you one. But which one?” “I don’t know, Aesop. Pick one and be done with it.” “Oh wait. You said you were waiting for someone.” “She called while you were indisposed. I got a little time. Go ahead,” Mike said, his hands in the air, “regale me with your best adventure.” “You talk white,” the drunk said. “Anybody ever tell you that?” “K through twelve,” Mike said. “Not so much in college.” “That’s such a racist thing to say. I’m no racist. I’m sorry, my friend.” The drunk placed a greasy hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I mean no offense with my nonsense. You know that brick building on the corner of Eighth and Robin?”
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