The Whiskey Monologues

MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE NEVER BEFORE



A gallery of ticket stubs adorns our wall:

Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl;

The Black Keys at the Palladium;

Vampire Weekend at the Music Box;

A house of memories built by hundreds of one inch by three-inch blocks of paper. Remember when you had to drag me to The Kills at the Trobadour because I didn’t think they could recreate Midnight Boom live with any sort of tenacity? You always did have a knack for proving me wrong.

Of all the bricks we’ve acquired during our tryst, the one I prefer most is the Dirty Projectors at the Wiltern. The one show we decided to stay at home instead. We wanted to go; we spent the ninety dollars on tickets, we called the cab to pick us up, but the Johnny Walker was too smooth, our bodies too perfectly configured in bed to leave. When “Heart Skipped A Beat” by The xx came on shuffle it was the nail in our coffin. I got up to get us more black label, you changed the iPod to repeat. We relived that perfect moment again and again that night, four minutes and two seconds at a time.

I told you there was no way the whiskey could taste any better. You took my glass and I watched as you began to let some drip between your thighs. You always did have a knack for proving me wrong.

(Song: Heart Skipped A Beat, by The xx.)