Friday Night

by Thom Gabrukiewicz

We were singing, the both of us, mostly show tunes and we were definitely off-key and off-kilter. There was no musical accompaniment, no Spotify or TV as backup, just my baritone to your soprano in all of its wobbly goodness. The vodka bottle was three-fifths gone, and the candlelight made kinetic shadow puppets against the walls as we danced and wailed through Anything You Can Do from Annie Get Your Gun. I forgot the words along about the partridge and the cartridge line, but you just kept right on singing — and dancing in tight concentric circles. You stopped, all of a sudden, and yelled at the top of your lungs, “Martinis are lubricants for the rich - and we must eat the rich;” and then in a soft, giggly whisper, “A screwdriver, por favor, a proper drink for a lady of my stature.” And I knew right then that I loved you even more than I had just moments before.

6S

Thom Gabrukiewicz, whose full catalog is here, lives and works in Wyoming, not ranching or farming, but trying to be fertile with words after some serious hiatus time after completing his book of short fiction titled Troublemaker. He blogs here.