Monday, August 23, 2010

On The Rocks

by Joseph A. W. Quintela

When Marty spoke the words froze instantly, transformed into tiny white spheres that rained like pebbles onto the hardwood floor with a pleasant atonal flourish.

It wasn’t cold. It was June, in fact. The mercury skyrocketing. Blood coursing at a boil through any given vein. Everywhere, reckless bouts of summer love blossomed. But not here. There was none of that here. Just two once-lovers and a stretch of thick, remorseless butcher’s block table wedged between.

The restaurant was otherwise empty.

Nothing to say here. As the night dragged on, he spoke with the utmost eloquence. Move along. Telling her the tale of the time he’d walked through the hills of Scotland and thought only of her. There’s nothing to say here.

Her face was a mirror. He just wouldn’t shut up.

Lara reached to the floor, taking a crystalline word between her thumb and index finger and holding it up to her eye like a jeweler. But for a moment. Then, she dropped it unceremoniously into her lowball of smoke scented 12 year-oldHighland single-malt. She took a long, slow sip, savoring the flavor of cold stones and fire water. The Scots had done it this way for centuries. A quiet little miracle.

She would fuck him tonight. But it would be the last time.

Joseph A. W. Quintela knows two things: 1.) The hard part is life. 2.) The easiest part is living. He is fascinated by the fact that his favorite word and his least are separated by nothing but semantics. (

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