Some flavor of margarita was half in her mouth, a lot of it on the table of Xochimilco’s, her head couldn’t process what she was tasting and her hand balled into a fist, relaxed enough to play some table piano, index finger in the frothy tequila puddle, then balled into a fist again while her brain reminded her mouth not to scream in a crowded restaurant.
Brawley Austen finished the margarita with the second gulp, if you didn’t count what she spilled on the table.
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