Martini Crime
I’ll have one of those pink Martini’s.
Not to be outdone I order something that James Bond might drink.
A kick start to the evening.
Two drinks appear.
So soon. Too soon.
And perfectly mixed.
I don’t trust this bartender.
The next hour is everything that a Manhattan date should be.
My date has enough wit and charm for three Dorothy Parkers,
And nicer eyes.
I’m less convincing as James Bond,
But I know my strengths and play to them.
Another round?
Certainly, we reply in unison.
Our drinks appear in the blink of an eye.
Perfectly mixed.
I wonder what made me mistrust this bartender?
More wit, more charm, more repartée.
Another round.
The alcoholic energy that propelled me forward just one hour ago has become gyroscopic:
If I slow down I wobble, if I speed up I will surely fall down.
I’m keeping a good pace right now but the bartender – he is a demon – has an evil plan.
Another round?
What was that?
Another round mixed and served before I process the question.
Time for a reality check.
My neurons are indeed still firing but in a random way, like shells in a burning munitions dump.
This most recent drink is like lighting a match in that dump.
An emblem of destruction but hardly the cause: the damage is already done.
I better make this my nightcap.
My date certainly looks beautiful right now.
She’s flushed, animated and friendly.
Unfortunately she’s speaking some foreign language, maybe French.
Strange phrases like “capital markets” and “return on equity” float out of her mouth like quotations from
Goethe.
No, not French, she’s speaking German.
Too bad I never studied German.
I think its time to move the date onto a more physical plane.
I look at her,
She looks at me,
We touch.
We continue to look at each other. We keep touching.
Is this love or is she trying to steady herself?
There’s only one way to find out.
I reel off my stool and into her arms.
Something is wrong!
Passion shouldn’t be this moist this soon.
Sorry, I spilled your drink, let me clean it up.
Let me help you.
Thud.
Sorry, I spilled your drink.
I think its time for you two to go home.
We were lucky that night.
We were let off with just a warning.
To my partner in Martini crime: a fictionalized account of my first date with Amanda at Monzu. Written July 4-5 1998.
I’ll have one of those pink Martini’s.
Not to be outdone I order something that James Bond might drink.
A kick start to the evening.
Two drinks appear.
So soon. Too soon.
And perfectly mixed.
I don’t trust this bartender.
The next hour is everything that a Manhattan date should be.
My date has enough wit and charm for three Dorothy Parkers,
And nicer eyes.
I’m less convincing as James Bond,
But I know my strengths and play to them.
Another round?
Certainly, we reply in unison.
Our drinks appear in the blink of an eye.
Perfectly mixed.
I wonder what made me mistrust this bartender?
More wit, more charm, more repartée.
Another round.
The alcoholic energy that propelled me forward just one hour ago has become gyroscopic:
If I slow down I wobble, if I speed up I will surely fall down.
I’m keeping a good pace right now but the bartender – he is a demon – has an evil plan.
Another round?
What was that?
Another round mixed and served before I process the question.
Time for a reality check.
My neurons are indeed still firing but in a random way, like shells in a burning munitions dump.
This most recent drink is like lighting a match in that dump.
An emblem of destruction but hardly the cause: the damage is already done.
I better make this my nightcap.
My date certainly looks beautiful right now.
She’s flushed, animated and friendly.
Unfortunately she’s speaking some foreign language, maybe French.
Strange phrases like “capital markets” and “return on equity” float out of her mouth like quotations from
Goethe.
No, not French, she’s speaking German.
Too bad I never studied German.
I think its time to move the date onto a more physical plane.
I look at her,
She looks at me,
We touch.
We continue to look at each other. We keep touching.
Is this love or is she trying to steady herself?
There’s only one way to find out.
I reel off my stool and into her arms.
Something is wrong!
Passion shouldn’t be this moist this soon.
Sorry, I spilled your drink, let me clean it up.
Let me help you.
Thud.
Sorry, I spilled your drink.
I think its time for you two to go home.
We were lucky that night.
We were let off with just a warning.
To my partner in Martini crime: a fictionalized account of my first date with Amanda at Monzu. Written July 4-5 1998.