“Five minutes and I would’ve closed for the season. Then what?” he asked.
I would’ve been alone. Alone in a dry county, locked outside the only place you could get something alcoholic if you happen to know the owner.
“Shit outta luck, I guess…”
He nodded thoughtfully before pouring a clear liquid into a dirty shot glass. I downed it. It burned. Tasted like I imagined paint thinner would taste.
“Another,” I said. “It’s been a summer.”
He obliged. I downed the second faster than the first.
Maybe next year we’ll go to Florida.
Can’t be any worse than this…
The Weekday One Hundred 