Sunday, August 26, 2007

 
The man in the Panama hat sighed as his martini was served in a sherbet glass.

A girl at the bar read a book while working her way through a plate of something colorful but indistinct. Cocked sideways against the rail she might also have been watching the TV—flittering visions of various sports—or the wait staff gathered in the corner chuckling over who-knows-what. Heat outside was kept as bay by hulking air conditioners in a corner, but the place managed to look sweltering and sweaty even in the cool. Bare wood floor, finish hanging by a thread in the corners, had endured the trampings of countless patrons looking for a drink, perhaps a place out of the weather.

Looking at that odd glass, Panama imagined what perverse turn of events might have precipitated such a choice in tableware: Was someone murdered by the broken stem of the proper item? Any bar that had seen the number of beverages poured that this one obviously had would surely have a martini glass. He looked at his companion, gave a little shake of his now bare head that held sparkling eyes.

"Cheers."

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