The menu bragged of a martini consisting of a top-shelf vodka and gin sharing the reservoir of an expensive stem, anathema to my respect for the mixocological arts of spirited beverage.
I'd have to catch a perfect cab home.
I'd need to steer my way perfectly, straight-through the front- and bathroom doorways.
I'd have to keep my eyes squinched perfectly and lightlessly closed to keep from seeing swirls of half-digested olives and pimiento.
A perfect martini would probably lead to another and another and another, taking me to all these places before delivering a perfectly aimed and miserable hangover of dispirited regret.
God bless the distiller's and God's own respective perfections in three fat fingers of Booker's bourbon over ice, with a splash of Kentucky branch water.
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