Page 16 of The Sky in Summer
“I rest my case.”
Two hours and thirty-seven minutes of catching up later and we are through dinner, and well into our cups. Haha! Into our cups. But I am acting one hundred percent sober, because I need to prove the brag. Drinking Van under the table is no easy task, but I am up to it. And he is up to no good.
“Let’s have another,” he says, not waiting to hear any argument.
He pours and I take a sip.
“Hey! Pour yourself one, Frenchie. I’m watching you.”
“Don’t worry, beautiful. I’m not shying away from anything.” He locks eyes with me. “Not any fucking thing.”
Was that a slight slur I heard? Sounded more like zing than thing. And he ignored my command not to call me beautiful. I will allow it! My imaginary gavel pounds its decision.
“You’re drunk off your ass,” I say laughing.
Hands come crashing against the table for emphasis. “I am most certainlynotdrunk. Youwishit were true.”
“Why would I wish that? It’s obvious I have already won the contest. Just give up now. You’re outmatched. Outgunned.”
“Oh them’s fightin’ words, darlin.”
“When did you turn into a cowboy?”
“When you brought up my pistol.”
“Then I’m going to call you Rowdy! That’s it. Rowdy the wrangler. I’ll be the school marm.”
“Have you noticed how many names we call each other?”
“How could I miss it? Pepe Le Pew, Rowdy, mon cheri, etc. etc.”
We both find the banter extremely amusing. Could be the booze has pickled our brains. Being drunk is a fast route to funny.
“What’s my name tonight?” I say.
“Let’s see, what shall I call you? Hmm. How about Miss Peaches?”
“Because I’m so sweet?” I say it in an innocent, lyrical tone.
“No. It’s because of your round, high ass.”
“What?!” I laugh.
“Don’t act so innocent. You know what’s bouncing back there.”
I have no idea how to react or respond. My drunken haze is affecting me. Should I be complimented or pissed? It was kinda cute, if I am being honest.
“So, here’s what I propose,” he says. “We need to come to a definite conclusion. Who handles their tequila better? Rowdy, the gun totin’, jerky eatin’, bronco ridin’ cowboy with the long rifle? Or Miss Peaches, the delicate, frail little woman, who teaches the children how to write their ABC’s? I mean if it was a contest of balance, you could perch something on your ass and win. You know, like a drink tray. But this is a contest of real skill.”
“First of all, you never mentioned the size of your weapon before. And secondly, I could do a lot more than balance a tray on this thing. But fortunately for me, you willneverknow exactly what that is.”
His drunken expression lights up. He slowly stands.
“Ha! I would do anything to find out though. I’ll say you’re the winner right now. Let’s stop this and proceed to the gold medal ceremony. That’s where you will receive your “laurels”. And I will sing the National anthem in your honor.”
“NO!”
I stand up a little too quickly and feel the slight sway. It doesn’t escape Van’s notice.
