Krista was there, finally. Submerged. The Tap Downstairs a brick aquarium tank now, the bourbon in her system giving her gills. Everything slower. Sounds reaching her late, stretched out so that she could mull them over or just let them pass her by. Life becoming fluid, languid. She reached her hand to the bar and met the resistance of the water, the push starting a ripple. Every movement began a current and left a wake. A twist of her head tipped the balance of the room, everything lifting then settling back into place again, the sounds lagging behind, a moment or two before finding her ears in their new position. One thing flowing beautifully into the next. Alone at the bar in the center of the liquid universe. Fuck you, Mrs. Joanie Magloan. The former Joanie Lawler always used to love to say, Shit, what you think, I’m gonna be one of those married girls who stops going out? This was before she kissed the freckled frog prince Magloan and got turned magically into a housewife. Two nights ago Krista called her—Sorry, Kris, can’t make it.
