Film Noir by Al McDermid

He’s on his third shot, liquid fortification, when she walks up and stands next to him at the bar. “Buy me a drink,” she says. He looks at the bartender, who looks at her. “Same as him.” “What are we drinking to?” he asks. She has a few years on her, but she wears them well; her breasts hang loose under her silk blouse. “How about my tits,” she says, “since you can’t seem to keep your eyes off them.” “And why is this a bad thing?” he asks. She gives him a look, and then knocks her tequila back in one motion, and not to be outdone, he follows suit. When she finishes the lime she says, “You know, if you weren’t such an asshole, you would have fucked me by now.” He puts twenty dollars on the bar and takes her by the wrist, leads her toward the door. She matches his pace and puts her arm around his waist, laughing. Once outside, he pulls her into the alley next to the bar and hikes up her skirt, not surprised to find she’s wearing no panties. After finishing, they lean panting against the wall. “Give me a cigarette,” she says. He lights two and hands her one. After a long drag, she says, “So, lover, how’d you like your anniversary present?” “Best ever,” he says. “Don’t know how I’m going to outdo you next year.” “You’ll think of something,” she says, smiling. “You always do.”

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