Last night at a bar in the City, I met a very beautiful man. Not handsome — beautiful. He had the kind of face that I will be able to see across a long stretch of years. I will tell my grandkids about that man. Anyway, he asked me what I was drinking. “Maker’s Mark,” I replied. “And I hate it,” I added. His lips curled into a smile that made me think of cigarette smoke. He asked me if he could buy me a drink. “Yes, another Maker’s Mark,” I answered. His cigarette smoke smile curled into a question mark. “I’m persistent,” I explained.
We eventually talked about our careers. He hates his job, but it pays him well enough that he can afford to buy people drinks they don’t even like. I told him that I’m a writer. I said that I am working on a collection of poems and a memoir. His question mark smile turned into an arrogant smirk. I thought of Lucifer then. I thought of Lucifer’s pointed tail. I was still talking to the beautiful man, but had already decided that our conversation was over. “How old are you?” he asked. I told him my age. “Aren’t you a bit young to be writing a memoir?” he replied. I hated him then. I hated the way Lucifer’s pointed tail made me think of the smirk on his face.
“What’s to say that in my short life, I haven’t already lived more than you?” I said, put down my half-finished drink, and walked away.