For My Critics

He stacked the glass with crushed ice, filling it all the way up and pressing it down to make sure he fit all he could.  Then he poured the vodka over the ice, splashing the top with orange juice for color.  He stuck his finger in the glass and forced it through the ice, allowing the juice to color the bottom.  Then he held it up to the light and examined it and felt the outside of the glass become cold.

Another walked in and seeing the familiar scene taking place said, “Oh, not this again.”


“Don’t rely on that,” he said, “You always go to that when you’ve nothing else.”

“So? I like it.”

“So,” he explained, “It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

“Oh well,” he replied, sipping the drink, “I haven’t been doing it to impress you, anyhow.”

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