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nerves began to flare up so I reached for the flask and took a big drag. I never quite understood why people claimed to like the taste of alcohol, particularly hard liquor like vodka. To me it seemed that alcohol didn’t have as much of a taste as it did a sensation—a horrid, burning sensation that seemed to eat away at everything it touched. That particular gulp felt as if The Human Torch from The Fantastic 4 was ramming his unsolicited “flamethrower” down my throat. In secret, I stole a glance from the two girls. One was chatting away while the other continued looking in my direction. Judging by their appearance and the nature of the location, they were most likely call girls as well. One of them, whose mouth jabbered in a way that suggested she was talking about a subject she was very much invested in, was short and stocky, with duotone blonde/bright red hair. The other girl was considerably more appealing; she had tawny hair, resting like strands of silk over her shoulders, and a very pretty, well-proportioned face. Her body was lean and sexily waifish, that much was discernible despite her posture, slouched forward with her arms tucked in for warmth. Both dressed uniformly in taught spaghetti strap tops and sweat pants as loose as they likely 57

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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