Charisse’s position on dropping in on daddy changed shortly after she’d navigated the elbow in the Palmetto Expressway and had them pointed east, toward the ocean. To her credit, she was focusing real hard on not crashing into anything on account of the four flavorful martinis that were affecting her vision and motor skills. To turn the volume down on her optic nerves she was squinting more with the left eye than right, and trying to hold a fifteen foot cushion between the front of her car and the nearest brake lights. The pomegranate and the mandarin drinks would have actually melded nicely enough, but the mango and Key Lime were jousting, and she had not had enough oyster crackers with the ceviche to moderate the consortium.
She needed some air. So she exited at Lauderhill and headed east, again, on Sunrise into Fort Lauderdale. He only knew they were not necessarily on the way to daddy’s when she suddenly pulled in and parked at a closed salon on Las Olas Boulevard. She got out of the car and began walking arm and arm with him toward the Intracoastal.
“Oh geez,” she said softly, before unloosing her grip on his arm and walking as briskly as she could under the circumstances into the lobby of the Marriott, then quickly navigating toward the bathroom.
“You okay?” he asked when she re-emerged.
“I am much improved and refreshed,” she said in the way that some people talk when they’re still half drunk.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“Water taxi,” she said. “We have to go all the way to Shooters. And then we have to come all the way back. Don’t let me forget the car.”
“Aw shit,” he said, “Can’t we just get some pancakes?”
“Hmmm,” she replied, at least acknowledging the sincerity and possibilities of his suggestion. “Nah. That’d be a good second choice. I wanna go to Shooters.”
No comments yet.