Excerpt from: "The Best Way to Do Shots"

In Celebration. From "The Best Way to Do Shots"

We met for $2 shots at that new place that used to be a coffee shop. At the moment the name escapes me-- too many drinks in between-- but I'll probably remember it when I'm sitting on the crapper reading the New Yorker or something. We had just thrown our daughter a party for her second birthday in a very family friendly environment, so after leaving her with her grandmother, my girl and I decided it'd be fun to get away and slam a few. After all, she's the one who should be getting the presents, right? Baby had a head like a melon. I always laugh about that, but she doesn't.

So I was buying. We decided that we'd do shots 'til we dropped. She had the Yellow Cab Co. on speed dial. We get the first round. She picked vodka. I was a little disappointed because I'm a whiskey guy, and I have horror stories with regards to mixing lights with darks, but I jammed with it. Vodka it is. "Any particular kind sir? House?"

"It's all two bucks, right?"

"Yes."

"Stolichnaya," I said, and turning to her, "I never heard it in a rap song."

She chuckled.

She looked at me smilingly, adoringly. I had to shake my head. Pinch myself. Never thought I'd be the recipient of such lovely things, not from this woman. We get our glasses.

"Did you know," I said, "that vodka is Russian for water, and that it was originally seen as a feminine drink?"

"That was on the Wikipedia entry."

I toasted to her and we drank. She signaled to the barman. Two more. "Everything's on Wikipedia," I said. She nodded. “Mhmmm.” We turned, and two more glasses filled with clear alcoholic water stared up at us. She toasts to me, we drink.

“Are you implying that everything I learn, I learn from the internet?” she asked.

“No, but... I don’t see you read much.”

“Fuck yourself,” she said.

Two more! We glared at one another, stifling laughter, awaiting our poison. The bottoms of the glasses scratched against the bar’s surface as the bartender slid them toward us. We grabbed blindly at the glasses, careful not to break the glare. We toasted to our daughter and drank, reacting animatedly to the burn.

“TV,” I said.

“What?”

“TV. The thing is always on.”

“I don’t watch that much! It’s just noise!” she insisted loudly.

“Yes, you hate silence,” I said, signaling for two more. She seemed a little perturbed at that point.

The bartender handed us our shots directly, one at a time. We toasted to us and sent them down our throats. She wiped her lips and smiled. “How ya feeling?”

“Good,” I said. I was confident. Just as confident as the first day I met her. I put my hands on her hips and drew her into me. She pushed off and told me I wasn’t getting out of it. She called for two more. She toasted to my horniness. I toasted to her always being on her period when I’m horny. She laughed and we slammed the shots down our throats.

“I hate it when you leave me with the baby,” she said.

“I hate it when you nag me,” I countered.

Two more! We toasted. After that we got two more. We had to sit down. We were all over one another. Just like junior year of college. Next thing I know, she had called a cab and we were standing outside, puking on the corner of the night, waiting for it.

Wiping the vomit from our lips, we fucked one another with our eyes. We started kissing. Inside the cab we held hands in silence. As the vehicle made the turn on our street, she looked at me and told me that it was too bad she was on the rag.

©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)