My Cardboard Balcony

Taco Tuesday by Belinda Roddie When the mules and margaritas aren't enough, the seared ahi tuna sticks in the most constricted part of your throat, sends you out to sea, rips up the sails, reminds you that you're mortal, leaves you on a pier with the wind ruining your hair, and suddenly, you're back in front of a monitor with the floaters scattering like flies from your vision, insectile fright manifested into watery debris, and all you do is listen to "upbeat" music, and all you do is watch videos of people leaving comments on tombstones, and all you do is write, and all you do is write, and all you do is write.

He fancies a drink – just don’t pour him one. The man is unstable, can’t you see that? He’s rocking back and forth on his stool, and the creaking is a percussion I can’t stand. I’ve half a mind to drink your finest whiskey straight from the bottle and demand the stuff free of charge. Now he’s singing in a language I’ve never heard of. He’s not in a fit state to do anything, let alone imbibe. Perhaps I’ll play some pool with him if he stops; at the very least, I’ll be guaranteed to win.