By Rob Grim
Her tongue’s a lure flashing over lips; a stage magician’s diversion. She catches me watching and looks at my ring. I stammer; she cuts me off.
“Another,” she says.
Coo, demand, and plea. Shots arrive and I’m trying to remember who ordered them. She’s handing me one already and when she does, she clinks her ring against the glass.
“You know it’s…we can’t.” I’m fighting not to slur, she’s leaning closer. I gulp my drink. Then she’s pulling my hand and I throw some cash on the bar.
“You’re right.” Her smile slices ten years off my life. “We’re doomed.”
Your first line sets the tone, Rob; the ending is inevitable. A winner.
Strong writing, Rob. Nice job.