The Taste of 3 A.M.
by Mercel Meyers
“Sally, all you’ve got are your tits.”
I had a talent at being able to say some of the nastiest things appropriate to the individual. The words lacked flavor on my tongue. Her face was taken aback, mouth agape and wide-set eyes in shock at the sudden assault. Somehow the cocktail of defending your best-friend and too much to drink at a college house party causes such things to be said.
I was quickly ushered away from the ensuing madness since such statements usually drew unwanted attention. On the other hand I was right, Sally did have nice tits. The air was tense and my mouth was dry with the desire for the best cheap beer. Whoever had gotten me away from the scene had suddenly left me hanging, I was outside and alone, not sure why I suddenly had goosebumps all over my body.
Sometimes I have little control of my words, often getting myself into trouble. I’m not a violent drunk but I am a loud one. The time was incomprehensible, I only knew it was reaching the coldest part of the evening. I hardly felt it, my body both numb and charged. The keg was nearby but floated sideways, empty. I spied an open bottle of Zinfandel ready for the willing. Without a second thought I put it to my lips and tilted it vertical, a pillar of the evening. Smoked cigarette buds that had been soaking in a tepid mixture of wine and backwash and god knows what else, went into my mouth.
Finally, I knew the taste of my words, a taste now I always know to avoid.
Mercel Meyers lives in Santa Monica as a stay at home dad. In the summers he runs a travelling tavern for various festivals in Oregon. He has completed the UCLA Extension writer’s program and most recently has been selected for honorable mention in New Millennium Writings.