Blake opened the door, his perfect white smile on display.
“Hey! TOO Long!” he half-yelled, a little too enthusiastically, “C’mon in here, man! And who is this beautiful butterfly with you?”
That sort of doting on his daughter creeped him out, especially when it came from someone like Blake. Too smooth. Too perfect looking. His defenses were up.
“Hey, Blake. So sorry to keep this so long.”
“Nooooo Problem. Hey, I have something you have to try.” He motioned them in. His daughter gave a perfect tween eyeball and shrugged. They followed Blake in.
He remembered why he hated coming here, and why it took so long to return the jigsaw. The Peace Corps souvenirs that filled the living room, the white water rafting and mountain climbing pictures, framed in all their pretentious glory. His daughter was sucked in by the portrait of the Sphinx.
“This,” he said, holding up a liquor bottle. “You have to try it.”
It was some sort of whiskey that he was into; a friend of his from college produced this reality show, some bullshit about a bunch of guys on boat, traveling around the whole world, and a buddy of his friend’s owned a distillery in Tennessee, or Kentucky, or some other shit-state down south, and they decided it would be a great idea to put a few barrels of whiskey on the ship–just to see what will happen.
“There were only a couple of hundred bottles sold. You have to try this. Have to. None for you, though, little lady.”
What a perv.
“We have some Cokes, if you want one, kiddo.”
He nodded at his daughter, “Sure, hon. But we can’t stay too long.”
Blake’s smile was like plastic. Or Plaster. His face just didn’t change.
It wasn’t the most generous pour he’d ever been given. But–who knows how much Blake paid for this, and honestly, he really didn’t drink liquor that wasn’t mixed with Coke, 7-up, something. He was definitely a Boulevard guy. Usually a Wheat guy, but you could talk him into a Pale.
The Whiskey didn’t burn, it tickled his inside cheek a bit. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
“Yeah?” Blake said, “Good stuff, right? Right?”
“It’s something else,” he said. He hoped he didn’t have to talk about “complexity” or anything like that.
His daughter laughed. “You hate it!”
“Busted by your butterfly!” Blake laughed. “How can you hate this? It’s incredible!”
Now I’m surrounded by frienemies, he thought. He looked at his daughter. She was looking at Blake. They were having a grand time, laughing at his expense.
continuing to explore these characters. I also couldn’t help but laugh at myself a bit in this piece. kudos if you can figure out how.