Drink

“What are you?” She asks again.

I pull on my cigarette, exhaling smoke in a low, expanding cloud.  Christ, what a question.  I’m the latest success story in a long line of champion-caliber sperm.  An improbable moralizing animal on the crust of a flying rock.  A single speck of matter in an empty and expanding universe.  I’m being shitty and I know it.  She looks perplexed by my silence.

“You know, like, what do you do?” She asks, rephrasing the question.  She seems genuinely curious.  She hasn’t touched her martini.

“I drink,” I say.  Her eyes widen slightly, surprise or anger I can’t tell.  “What are you?” I ask.

“I’m regional sales manager for—“ I cut her off with a wave.

“Drink,” I say.

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