Last of the Mojitos by D.J. Reid (novel books to read TXT) đź“–
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the bathroom sink….
“That’s the last of the mojitos.” The bartender is talking to my back. “We’re out of mint now.”
“It’s okay.” I stare at the rain and take another sip of the one in front of me. Cody’s backpack is at my feet, shoved up against the wall under the sill where I’m parking my elbows. The maroon Crown Vic hasn’t moved. Did the occupants get out while I was lost in thought? I can’t say. Maybe they did. Maybe they aren’t police but a couple of elderly tourists, waiting out the rain. I don’t know. I’m not sure I care. Not right now. Maybe never. I nudge the pack with my toe.
The rain is still steady but the sky is lighter. Soon it will slack off.
“Can I get you anything else?”
I shake my head, reach into the backpack, and peel off a couple of twenties, which I lay on the bar as I shoulder the pack. If the bartender is surprised, he doesn’t show it, just says, “Thanks.”
I am ready, as ready as I ever will be. Should I feel more? Should I do more? My nerves are dulled, more than can be justified by drinking of the mojitos. It’s not just about the money in the backpack on my shoulder. It was never just about that.
As I hunch under the remnants of the downpour and trudge up the street, the headlights of the Crown Vic come on.
Imprint
“That’s the last of the mojitos.” The bartender is talking to my back. “We’re out of mint now.”
“It’s okay.” I stare at the rain and take another sip of the one in front of me. Cody’s backpack is at my feet, shoved up against the wall under the sill where I’m parking my elbows. The maroon Crown Vic hasn’t moved. Did the occupants get out while I was lost in thought? I can’t say. Maybe they did. Maybe they aren’t police but a couple of elderly tourists, waiting out the rain. I don’t know. I’m not sure I care. Not right now. Maybe never. I nudge the pack with my toe.
The rain is still steady but the sky is lighter. Soon it will slack off.
“Can I get you anything else?”
I shake my head, reach into the backpack, and peel off a couple of twenties, which I lay on the bar as I shoulder the pack. If the bartender is surprised, he doesn’t show it, just says, “Thanks.”
I am ready, as ready as I ever will be. Should I feel more? Should I do more? My nerves are dulled, more than can be justified by drinking of the mojitos. It’s not just about the money in the backpack on my shoulder. It was never just about that.
As I hunch under the remnants of the downpour and trudge up the street, the headlights of the Crown Vic come on.
Imprint
Publication Date: 09-28-2009
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