The Shititude
The perfume entered Frank’s before she did.
A painfully polished socialite swept through the door, claimed a barstool, and dropped an expensive designer purse onto the counter as though it required its own seating arrangement.
She looked Frank over with the mild disgust of someone inspecting a hotel room.
“Pour me something good.”
No hello. No please.
Frank stared at her for a moment, then reached beneath the bar for an unmarked bottle reserved for special occasions—and exceptionally unpleasant people.
Into a shot glass he poured:
Two ounces of entitlement.
One dash of contempt.
A splash of somebody else’s money.
And just enough consequences to fill the glass.
Frank slid it across the bar. A little spilled over the rim.
She looked down at the wet counter.
“You spilled it.”
Frank glanced at the puddle.
“It’ll recover.”
She lifted the glass, took one sip, and immediately spat it back.
“What the hell is this?”
Frank finally looked her in the eye.
“Your personality.”
He picked up his bar rag.
“I watered it down.”
THE SHITITUDE
Served cold to people who arrive that way.
Last Call Society
Bad Decisions. Good Stories.
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