Thursday, August 10, 2006

What's Your Poison?

On fucking 9/11 we met at her apartment late in the day to watch TV. The general hysteria served to deflect the malaise that had infected us, it seemed. She welcomed me with a Mona Lisa smile. My sister had preceded me and was on the phone, distraught, crosslegged on J's ancient, thinning rug.

They were drinking – it was inconceivable not to drink, of course – but J. said something weird to me. Under the circumstances. She said, "What's your poison?"

I guess she meant, gin or vodka. I paused and gamely made a choice, whatever it was and for whatever it was worth. But it struck me funny that she said that. On any other day I'd appreciate the weird juxtaposition, intentional or not, of hokey cliché and wry morbidity. But on that day, it was - weird. And I didn't even want to be all reverent or nothing. Far be it from me.

But still.

What's your poison?

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