The Whiskey Monologues

WHISKEY SOUR, PLEASE.

We talked about troubles over cocktails and doubles. Ongoing in her case, long past in mine. Poor kid thought the bastard in question was some diamond in the rough, as if good intentions and ample compromise was enough to make any asshole change their stripes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, no, sorry, you’re best off without him.

I did, however, buy her another drink.  

Submitted by McKinney Can’t Write.

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