There was straight gin on the rocks in his coffee cup. There always was straight gin on the rocks in his coffee cup now.
A friend discovered that accidentally and had given him sterling silver cocktail swords and a jar of anchovy olives.
Foster Lethbridge didn’t get many gifts, and when he did, he cherished them whether they fit him and his personality and interests or not.
An orthopedic surgeon got more work out of the electric one wheel board he got from a neighbor than he had, but he did ride it for a week before the mishap.
Now he rested the sword of olives on top of the cup, giving away the fact that there was probably booze in the cup, but the cup had also been a gift, years, years, years ago. Badly stained by breakfast teas, the brown haze inside slowly being stripped by top shelf gin.
It was his shop, appointment only, he was the only person who did it for four hundred miles and the only person who was good at it for a thousand. He would drink what he damn well pleased.
Tatiana Amore was the client today.
She approached the shop from the parking lot, wicker basket in hand with a blue and white checked tablecloth over it.
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