Soaked Cherry.

It is presently two weeks until the ides of March. I am lucky that I still have my head. Take one. Long bar. Fake marble but comfortable nonetheless. Head down mulling over the bitterness of the previous bars femme fatale and perusing over my composed thoughts which mostly comprised of a butterfaced threesome that concluded before my present day beau knocked on my door at 7am. The margin between relief and death is gossamer thin which maybe explains why the word appears on condom packets.

A random cowboy sits besides me and orders a reposado, any reposado. He espouses virtue like a storm drain espouses middle aged orange county cosmopolitan tinged shits into the pacific. The bar exhales again and breathes air into me. Bukowski is absent. He has been replaced by curlicue moustaches, hipsters, snapshots, large ice cubes and hemp picks. I bite into a juicy pinot noir soaked cherry and realise that the juice that extracts is less ambivalent than those that seek to engage.