Bubbles: Story 3

I am eating a cheeseburger in a bar near Austin, TX, where country music two-steps in the background, and it’s simply assumed that I want hot sauce with my meal (God bless.).

The bartender’s eyes light up when I ask her to make me a bubble cocktail that explodes into berry-infused smoke when pricked by the tip of my manicure. I’ve had more than one just to watch them explode, but I certainly don’t need this much vodka.

Everyone’s slow twang has grown on me, though I still feel like I have to speed my hearing up to fully understand a Texan’s vowels.

Icey margaritas hopefully churn in tumblers, waiting to be picked next as the ones to squirt liquid-frozen-sugar-intoxication from their bowels.

The place is blurred with regulars who call the bartender “hun” and “the best bartender in Texas” and “others” like me who just stumbled in here desperate to consume meat, alcohol, and tangential human contact.

Time moves at a leisurely pace in these four walls. It’s the last night of my excursion, and I feel like I may just land like an iridescent, soapy orb - right before I break.