Piratesmiley (in her usual fabulous way) gave us drunk Olivia. May I now respond with Drunk Peter...
Earn the Bullet
No good sentence ever starts with 'let me ask you something.' Seeking permission means it's personal, which for me translates into uncomfortable, which prompts another round. Why does she do that? And why does she always do it when drunk?
Actually, this might not be so bad for me since she may not remember my answer to whatever is brewing in her alcohol-soaked brain. Unless she's faking the tipsiness like the good little agent she is. Of course, inebriation tends to shove me down the path of paranoia. And there she sits, looking so… Damn. This is a problem.
Sober me is better at dodging. Drunk me has no balance. Liquor makes such a soft landing that falling becomes an option. It would be so easy. But she's asking now and I miss it because I'm transfixed by the formation of words by those beer-sweetened lips. I'd ask her to repeat but if my tongue moves, it may drift somewhere that'll earn me a bullet. While I'm gauging the worthiness of it, I simultaneously debate whether she's showing off that delectable collarbone just to spite me. But she says it again at a volume the Chinese government can hear.
Do I want to? Is she kidding?
Sobriety hits me about the same time that her perfume does and I wonder why she even bothered to ask. She should know what she's requesting isn't my thing. I'm not proud, mind you. Throw me across the table and get it over with.
Which she doesn't do, though it doesn't interfere with her apparent goal of stripping me. Of my dignity, I mean. Because, in the reality we rarely live in, I don't actually want to. I'm not kidding. I'm clearly not drunk enough for it. But, it turns out that despite the whole 'asking' bit, she's not really interested in my opinion. I know this because she's dragging me and my slurred protests up to the stage, depositing me at the piano while she butchers the opening of a moody pop song. The bleary-eyed patrons aren't critics, fortunately.
Britney she's not, but with the swaying hips before me, my playing gets a little sloppy. And I'm glad I'm sitting. She finishes on a wavering high note to sporadic applause, seemingly thrilled with herself. First-timer, I'm guessing. I tell her, as we make our staggering way to a taxi, that I need payment for my services.
Her response gets us thrown out of the cab.
Somewhere between the curb and her door I say, 'let me ask you something' and she's chanting yes before I get the question out. Not that I mind. Because I've got that ass in my hands and she's singing just for me.