No, but pour me another Scotch

It’s 2 am on a school night and I’m sitting in an underground jazz club with four gypsies. Stop me if you’ve heard this one. I’m mellowed on wine sent by the club owner and tapping my foot to Mediterranean beats. The gypsies order Scotch that is brought to the table in a locked case. Ice fills five glasses swims, empties, and swims again.

I’m drinking 100€ Scotch on a school night with four gypsies and the band. We’re talking life and love in slurred syllables of languages I may once have understood. The night is young and so am I and would I like to “faire l’amour” with a burly gypsy man? He smiles, leans closer, offers bottles of champagne. I smile, see slobber, hairs in places only skin should be. He raises an eyebrow, I hope that’s all. I raise my empty glass.