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.