Honeymoon

While pulling a barstool, 

screeching across the floor, 

you're hit with the scent of whiskey, 

mahogany, and your own sweat, 

which intermingles with the taste

of blood in your mouth. The hardwood 

backrest is light in your hand. You 

can't see a bottle of Maker's on the shelf.

It's going to be a long night. 

Your husband raises a finger beside

you. "One more for my bride, sir!"

he says, or would have if he weren't dead.