He’s playing some Lou Reed on the stereo and at times, I haven’t been able to figure out if he’s listening to me or Walk on the Wild Side. He’s matched me drink for drink, yet his cheeks aren’t rosy, and you’d never be able to tell he’d had a sip if it weren’t for the half empty bottle he’s cradling like a football. He stopped making eye contact with me ten minutes ago, which I presume to mean that he’s so disgusted with my actions that he can’t even look in my direction. I say, “And that’s it. Charlene’s got a hard-on for Liar Liar Pants on Fire Dallas, both of them apparently work for DPS, and, somehow, Charlene knows the details of my mission, or missions, plural, but I don’t know what to believe anymore.” The words come out more slurred than I like. Liquor doesn’t mix well with me, and as it stands, I’m calling a cab when I leave here. Or, I could steal the Hummer parked outside.
