I DON’T MEAN to be a bother, baby. You know I don’t. But when are you gonna refill that shot glass? I mean, if you’re going to go through the trouble of putting whisky on your altar for me, at least keep the cup full. My cup doesn’t runneth over. Not even this itty bitty shot glass. At least let my tiny cup runneth over and not sit empty for your-months1 at a time, with a dirty brown grit at the bottom.
Take your time. I don’t mean to be a burden about the bourbon. But I gotta say this: Right here next to this empty glass, you got this picture of me, my old eighth grade graduation picture. Now why? You have much better pictures of me with my hair down, lips red, smiling. Like that one with me in that green dress, standing in front of Shirley’s Cadillac the day she bought it. I look scared to death in that old picture. (I suppose I was.) Well, at least you can tell my color there. You can see I’m fair. And my high cheekbones. You know, I used to tell people I got these cheekbones
