Not too sweet.

We were at the karaoke bar and he wanted us all to sing Hall and Oates. He wanted to buy everyone what they wanted, even the weird drinks, even the guy in the corner nursing a tequila and ginger, which he swore was not too sweet and just delicious enough. He bought someone a gin and soda with a cherry. He bought me a scotch and soda with a lemon. The bartender had too many tattoos: a loopy, white bird, an upside down cross and an abstract tornado, he said, that was taken straight from his portfolio. And we kept drinking, taking down gulps of our drinks, letting the gin and scotch dribble down our chins as we drank them down slowly at first and then faster and faster, until we were water-logged, fatally numb from our bad decisions and top shelf liquor.


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