Anything but A White Wine Spritzer

“The Usual Suspects is criminally overrated. The plot is weak, and the twist really isn’t a twist at all as all the flashbacks are complete fabrications. It doesn’t age well. The acting is sub-par and despite some interesting editing, the overall look of the movie is cliched.”

He took a drink of his gin and tonic, letting the satisfied sensation linger as the bubbles tickled their way down his throat. Later, after three too many drinks, and after he kissed her throat again and again, he would feel differently.

“Weren’t you eight when that movie was released?”

The question was ridiculous to him.

“So I’m not allowed to have an opinion because I was too young to appreciate the film in its proper historical perspective? That’s like saying I can’t be critical of the drab and overdone music of Nirvana because I am too young to have understood the impact it had on the music industry as a whole. My opinions are as valid as you and your 40 something pals.”

A thin, pale smile danced across her face and she held in the laugh that involuntarily pressed up from her chest and into her throat. He was adorable, and she adored adorable.

“Certainly, your opinions are valid and you are welcome to them. It’s just that this conversation is twenty years old and at least fifteen years too late. It feels unnecessary, like me complaining The Ten Commandments is an anti-communist propaganda piece, cloaked in a bible story. I may be right, but who besides me really cares? Let’s talk about something more interesting, like how nicely that dinner jacket rests on your shoulders.”

She reached out and brushed some lint off his lapel, letting her fingers linger on the expensive fabric.

He decided she was pretty, even though she was 40, which surprised him. Her long legs and short dress, the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, each strand of gray hair, only added to the unexpected attraction. His plan to sound smart, to fit in at this party, where he was the son of an invited guest, no longer interested him. He felt a suddenness work its way through his body, a familiar shift in mood, a loss of clarity and focus. He wanted to blame the alcohol, but it was never a convincing argument.

“Your glass is empty,” he said. “What should we fill it with?”


About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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