Tequila, 4:20

His arms on the cheap wooden table work hard to keep him upright. He looks across the table at her. She’s impossibly young and beautiful.

“What am I drinking?” he asks.


“What time is it?”

“4:20 in the morning.”

“Who are you?”

This is complicated. Too complicated for her to explain in his current state. She wants to explain how she had once dreamed of a future together, of wandering the globe as two lovers on a spectacular journey. In this bar, at this time, it’s all she can do to hold out hope that a future together is still possible.

She wants to explain all of this, but can only manage, “Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”

He looks down again, disoriented.

“What am I drinking?”


“What time is it?”

“Still 4:20.”

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