Saturday Prose Interlude -- 100 Words

Communion

She sucked on her martini, oblivious to taste, to companion, to
the room in which she sat, her features tightening with the
first sip, lips pinching, teeth gnashing, eyes glazing,
anticipating with familiar affection the icy olives steeping
in gin, saving those olives for last, surely pleased she's not
the type, so common, to choose a twist -- or worse, onion -- to
accessorize her spirits, able to abandon the glass, to burst
reverie, only long enough to light a smoke, suck on that, and
blow another dusky gust of her sour heat toward the face across
the table, waiting, thirsting, still.

-- TH