This is Water (and this is whiskey).

“When you see a beautiful young woman, what do you think?”

“I don’t–think.”

“When I see a beautiful young girl, I don’t lust after her because she’s young and beautiful. It’s because I’m not.”

“Focus on the curves. Don’t analyze it. Animal instinct.”

“Never could hit the curves.”

“You think too much. Feel more.”

“The mind is a wonderful servant but a terrible master.”

“He’s dead, you know. Blew his head off.”

“Who?”

“Wallace.”

“Hung himself, actually.”

“Tomato. Tomahto. Got to the same place differently.”

“You’re quite the literate bartender.”

“Wallace looked like a usually homeless, occasional part-time house painter. A genius (of sorts). Who knew?”

“Are you secret ’skull and crossbones’ and your booze slinging is an elaborate cover up?”

“Maybe. Maybe I just take the train for about an hour and a half total each day— when it fucking shows.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re having some midlife-crisis ajada about getting old?”

“Is that the same thing as grieving not being young?”

“Potato. Potahto. It’s a bit played, isn’t it? A bit of a conceit?”

“It is. Was that supposed to be helpful?”

“One more?”

“One more. Probably.”



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