Page 52 - WTP Vol. VI #4

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My friend ignored my last assertion. Perhaps it did not sit well with him, my take on drinking port in the afternoon. As if it mattered. In the end we do what we want to do, say what we want to say, paying lip service to custom. As we departed I told the waiter that I left no tip for him because his militant stance strictly for- bade it.
Oceans Apart
It’s not the same as taking your finger and tracing your name in the sand, or the name of your lover. If you stare at the sky long enough something will dawn on you. We figured what was happening below had little to do with what went on in the heavens.
“It’s a conspiracy.”
“What is?”
“The hegemony of sky.”
“You’re talking shit.”
“No, seriously. We’re ants compared to its immensity.”
My friend spoke truly. He’d worn some kind of hunting hat that afternoon, and abstained from his usual whisky and water, preferring a glass of port. I like port fine, but it strikes me as an evening drink.
“Tell me, my friend, did you shoot quail this morning?” “Quail? People shoot quail? They are tiny.”
“Yes, so they are.”
“Shooting them seems—”
“Cruel and unusual?”
“No, a waste. They are a fine eating bird, albeit scant.”
I disliked the way my friend could sound like a man from the early twentieth century. In many respects, he had not evolved. The waiter serving us wore a camouflage outfit that I found untoward. Bit my tongue when he came by.
“More port, sir?”
“Yes, top me up.”
I winked at the waiter to indicate I wanted nothing from him at that moment, but later we’d square accounts. My friend frothed, “Don’t you think it has been warm?”
“Warm?”
“Unseasonably.”
“I sleep with a duvet.”
“Port was a good choice.”
“I like it after dinner.”
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