river of tequila and vodka.
Her name started with a T, that much he remembered. Tiffany. Maybe Tammy.
"I'm in the bathroom ," Travis said to her, indicating the sink and Kenny on the toilet with his magazine. She stood on his linoleum, clearly not caring that she'd walked in on his morning ablutions. The bright blue shower curtain behind her looked like one of those TV blue screens, making Travis feel like the whole thing was surreal, unnatural.
Or maybe that was the leftover rum in his system talking.
"Listen," he said, rubbing his head, "can we talk about this later?"
She parked a fist on her hip, the purse swinging to the front. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"Of course I do." Tawny. Terry .
"Then what's my name?"
He swallowed. Beside him, he could see Kenny smirking. Damn. Why couldn't she have shown up after the Tylenol had had a chance to start working?
Tara. Tess. Tilda .
Shit. He'd about run out of T names and not one had felt mentally right. He'd take his last resort then— turn the tables on Thomasina-Thelma-Tasha . "Listen, you clearly don't like me anymore. Wouldn't it be best if we forget about each other? Move on. Get a little closure?"
If he spouted enough Dr. Phil maybe she'd leave.
"Oh, I won't forget you," she said. "Or what you did to me."
"What I did to you?" Oh shit. What the hell did she mean by that? He'd been drunk, but not that drunk.
Had he?
"I-I-I—" She sniffled, shook her head, then directed her gaze at him again. "I thought you loved me."
Travis swallowed. Had he used that word? That alone was a sign he was drinking too much. That was it. The rest of the case of beer was going down the drain.
Wait. That might be too rash. Better just to put it in the bottom bin of the refrigerator. Outta sight, outta mind, outta mouth and outta trouble.
"How could you think that?" Travis asked. "I barely—" He caught himself before he said remember you , and reworded. "We barely dated."
"I felt a connection." She swiped at her eyes. "Right in the first few minutes, when we started talking on Brian's sofa."
Brian's sofa. Okay, he remembered a conversation with a redhead— Tori, Trista, Trixie —at Bri's party last night, but nothing that would have caused him to hear wedding bells ringing. "Uh, I'm sure we had a great conversation ..."
Toni. Tracy. Tricia.
"... but I think you got the wrong idea," he said.
"Oh, you do, do you?" She pursed her lips. "I only got the idea you gave me, Travis."
He put up his hands. "Hey, I'm not a commitment kind of guy. It was a pleasure meeting you last night, but—"
She cocked her head to the right and zeroed in on his gaze. "You don't remember me at all. Do you?"
"Well, I—" He finished on a self-deprecating half laugh that he hoped begged forgiveness and turned on whatever charm he had left after a night of drinking and making a fool out of himself. "I'm sorry—"
"Olivia Tate, you jerk!" And then she swung the massive purse right at his head.
He wasn't prepared for a pocketbook blow. He felt a slam—what'd she have in there? A watermelon?— then felt himself fall to the floor in a crumpled, hungover heap.
From his vantage point, he watched a pair of black heels pivot and stomp out of his bathroom. Behind him, Kenny laughed so hard, Travis could hear the pages of Playboy fluttering like applause.
Her last name started with a T. His first name was the one that began with T. No wonder the Budweiser company was so wealthy. They'd sucked all his brain cells out and into the brown bottles he used to worship.
No more beer. No more parties. And no matter what, no more women.
Travis moaned and reached up, feeling along the counter for the Tylenol. He drew the bottle down to his level and flipped up the top with his thumb.
Empty.
Now that was poetic justice.
Momma’s All-You-Need-Is-This Tuna Casserole
12 ounces flat egg noodles, cooked and drained
2 7-ounce cans tuna, drained
1 cup mayonnaise
1 large onion, chopped
1 green
Her name started with a T, that much he remembered. Tiffany. Maybe Tammy.
"I'm in the bathroom ," Travis said to her, indicating the sink and Kenny on the toilet with his magazine. She stood on his linoleum, clearly not caring that she'd walked in on his morning ablutions. The bright blue shower curtain behind her looked like one of those TV blue screens, making Travis feel like the whole thing was surreal, unnatural.
Or maybe that was the leftover rum in his system talking.
"Listen," he said, rubbing his head, "can we talk about this later?"
She parked a fist on her hip, the purse swinging to the front. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"Of course I do." Tawny. Terry .
"Then what's my name?"
He swallowed. Beside him, he could see Kenny smirking. Damn. Why couldn't she have shown up after the Tylenol had had a chance to start working?
Tara. Tess. Tilda .
Shit. He'd about run out of T names and not one had felt mentally right. He'd take his last resort then— turn the tables on Thomasina-Thelma-Tasha . "Listen, you clearly don't like me anymore. Wouldn't it be best if we forget about each other? Move on. Get a little closure?"
If he spouted enough Dr. Phil maybe she'd leave.
"Oh, I won't forget you," she said. "Or what you did to me."
"What I did to you?" Oh shit. What the hell did she mean by that? He'd been drunk, but not that drunk.
Had he?
"I-I-I—" She sniffled, shook her head, then directed her gaze at him again. "I thought you loved me."
Travis swallowed. Had he used that word? That alone was a sign he was drinking too much. That was it. The rest of the case of beer was going down the drain.
Wait. That might be too rash. Better just to put it in the bottom bin of the refrigerator. Outta sight, outta mind, outta mouth and outta trouble.
"How could you think that?" Travis asked. "I barely—" He caught himself before he said remember you , and reworded. "We barely dated."
"I felt a connection." She swiped at her eyes. "Right in the first few minutes, when we started talking on Brian's sofa."
Brian's sofa. Okay, he remembered a conversation with a redhead— Tori, Trista, Trixie —at Bri's party last night, but nothing that would have caused him to hear wedding bells ringing. "Uh, I'm sure we had a great conversation ..."
Toni. Tracy. Tricia.
"... but I think you got the wrong idea," he said.
"Oh, you do, do you?" She pursed her lips. "I only got the idea you gave me, Travis."
He put up his hands. "Hey, I'm not a commitment kind of guy. It was a pleasure meeting you last night, but—"
She cocked her head to the right and zeroed in on his gaze. "You don't remember me at all. Do you?"
"Well, I—" He finished on a self-deprecating half laugh that he hoped begged forgiveness and turned on whatever charm he had left after a night of drinking and making a fool out of himself. "I'm sorry—"
"Olivia Tate, you jerk!" And then she swung the massive purse right at his head.
He wasn't prepared for a pocketbook blow. He felt a slam—what'd she have in there? A watermelon?— then felt himself fall to the floor in a crumpled, hungover heap.
From his vantage point, he watched a pair of black heels pivot and stomp out of his bathroom. Behind him, Kenny laughed so hard, Travis could hear the pages of Playboy fluttering like applause.
Her last name started with a T. His first name was the one that began with T. No wonder the Budweiser company was so wealthy. They'd sucked all his brain cells out and into the brown bottles he used to worship.
No more beer. No more parties. And no matter what, no more women.
Travis moaned and reached up, feeling along the counter for the Tylenol. He drew the bottle down to his level and flipped up the top with his thumb.
Empty.
Now that was poetic justice.
Momma’s All-You-Need-Is-This Tuna Casserole
12 ounces flat egg noodles, cooked and drained
2 7-ounce cans tuna, drained
1 cup mayonnaise
1 large onion, chopped
1 green
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