Putrid Quinoa

Damian stands, like a captain to the wind, his face fixed and his whiskers billowing beneath lightning strikes.

“I’m here with you.” I say, looking up.

He does not acknowledge me. He is too tightly wrapped in the journey.

 

It’s Sunday: a day of mourning.

I cross myself as a creature walks in. She wants the Pemberston.

“Pour Gringos.” she says.

“What?” I ask.

She wants white wine.

“Do you know which wine she’s talking about?” I ask Damian.

“Putrid quinoa.” she says.

Damian doesn’t know.

“Prungled Grainers.” she says.

“Pinot Grigio?” Damian asks.

“Yes.” she says.

He doesn’t sell it to her. He gets her to admit that she is drunk.

“I’m not a bad person…” she says.

“I’m sorry. State law.”

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