"A jackalope?" rasps the crone at the end of the bar.
"Yeah," confirms her sister with similar grit. "13th century Peruvian, love."
I check my watch discreetly, anxious to close, not enough to risk angering them.
"Well, Bob's yer uncle, dear. Hungry?"
"Another round, first. Two more Souls, Matthew."
They've called me Matthew all night. I'm not sure if they misheard my name or dislike 'Michael.' Anyway, Ritchie will roast me if they go through the entire supply.
"Maaatheeew," they call in broken singsongy stereo.
Next to the Souls tap, the Dutch Forget-Me Please; near-same look and taste.
Dare, do?
Copyright (c) 2021 by D.Lasala -- Image by D.Lasala with DALL-E, 2022
