Little Talks Part 1: Playing Through

The first in a series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent-free in Scott’s head.

“Who ever told you Tito’s was part of a complete breakfast?” she says as she turns the corner into the kitchen to find me pouring the main ingredient to my first drink of the day at approximately 10:30 in the morning. “Little early, isn’t it?”

Somewhat surprisingly there’s not a lot of shock in her tone. It’s more like she’s ribbing me a little bit, if I had to choose a word — mostly fucking with me but with a tinge of judgment and maybe the tiniest bit of worry as I reach into the fridge for the bottle of seltzer from the knock-off SodaStream. (At least I’m reducing my footprint by not using the somewhat shocking amount of cans I could to accommodate my vodka/soda vice.)

“I would have predicted an orange juice mixer at this hour,” she says as she’s buttoning up her shirt. She looks amazing. Slightly disheveled in the best possible ways, while I am standing there clad only in my glasses, a pair of washed-out boxer briefs and a T-shirt from a college I didn’t even go to. And with a handle of booze in my hand that will likely be the heaviest thing I lift through the day unless at some point we end up going back to bed.

“You know, I don’t know who decided a certain time of day was appropriate for drinking, but I wasn’t consulted and don’t feel like I need to adhere to those fake-ass rules, especially on a Saturday, so i won’t. And besides, sometimes when you’ve had a heavy night of dirty martinis it’s best not to let the hangover bite,” I say, picking up the plastic Pittsburgh Pirates cup into which I’ve poured my concoction and swirling it around clockwise a few times. “I learned this a long time ago. I call it playing through. It’s an art. I’m working on perfecting it.”

“I love art in pretty much all its forms,” she says. “So sign me up, I guess. I don’t really have shit to do today, so, here we go.”

“Well, alright then. Coffee’s on the table too.”

She looks over at the coffee table, made specifically for coffee apparently, realizes I mean it’s an option, like, “This choice is on the table,” not that I’ve…