My Cardboard Balcony

Cocktail Menu by Belinda Roddie The truth is, I need that girl like I need a shot of whiskey - burning all the way down, leaving ulcers in my gut that somehow bring on good pains. Coating my throat in sparks that numb after they're done with their flight. I need that girl like three rounds of tequila and lime, with just enough salt. If I feel dizzy, then I ought to thank her for the vertigo. Her body makes my head spin like a carnival ride. As long as I don't puke after the high I get, I'm good. I need that girl like an Irish Carbomb slammed into my jaw. The shot glass quivers like a loose tooth against my own incisors. I feel the impact of the brim of the stein more than the bite of the alcohol at first, and the tremors don't stop; my heart beats out angry earthquakes that crush the Richter scale with steel-toed boots. I get the urge to down another one despite the fact that 1. Irish Carbombs don't really taste that good, anyway, except for

"Why do you think he's here?" whispered Anya, her eyes narrowed above the brim of her beer stein. "I don't know," I muttered. "Maybe he's waiting for a friend?" "Pfft. Doubt it. I'm sure there's some girl he's planning to stalk or whatever." I stared at Anya. It wasn't like her to be so accusatory. What had Marshall done to her to make her so suspicious of him and his actions? Besides, this was the best bar in town - he didn't need to ask for permission to frequent it.