E. M. Sugiyama

Daydream Pair

Care:

“Let’s get a drink,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she said.

“We decide what’s appropriate,” he said, grabbing her cold hand. He was winded from coming up the stairs.

She had bewitching eyes, like her sister.

They decided on martinis. Gin. Very dry. Stirred. Two Spanish olives.

Conference:

“Drive me,” she said. “We’ll spend our time in the bars and hotels while the conference swirls around us.”

“You make it sound like a foreign country,” he said.

They drank malt liquor the first night, Malbec the second, and the conference didn’t so much swirl as pass by.

They spent the final night in the room watching traffic from the balcony and splitting six Coors.

“We should have gotten more,” she said, as he fell asleep.

On the way home he put his hand on her thigh and powered up to ninety.

“Faster,” she said.

E. M. Sugiyama lives in Denver. He once worked on a farm for a couple of days.