San Diego Momma's PrompTuesday # 51:This week, San Diego Momma started us off with a first sentence. (I love these!) So without further ado:
She lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.” She coolly downed the remainder of the vodka Gibson she had insisted be served in an actual cocktail glass instead of the plastic cup originally proffered.
"Goodbye, Jack."
Then, without so much as a sideways glance, she turned on her slingback Prada heels, and strode unceremoniously out of the "sorry excuse for a ballroom". Her words.
Up until that point, attending his 20th high-school reunion had seemed a grand idea. Now he wasn't so sure. He gazed once more around the room. In the wake of Bobbi's departure, ("It's Roberta, Jack. Always has been. Please try to remember that, won't you?"), he had to admit everything seemed suddenly dreary and depressing. The laughter sounded forced and artificial. The once-familiar faces looked tired and used up, or bloated with debauchery and excess. The women, every last one of them mutton dressed as lamb, struggled to feign class and pretend that this barnyard hoedown was a night at Maxim's. It was a safe bet that few of these yokels had ever traveled far enough afield to so much as cross a county line.
Jack glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. Roberta had been there for exactly ten minutes. In that time, she had surveyed the environs, assessed the value of both the ritual display and its participants and found it all lacking.
"What the hell am I still doing in this godforsaken town?" he mumbled.
"You say something, pal?" The bartender was eyeing him, expectantly.
"Uh, no. I mean, yeah," he stammered. "Belevedere Gibson, please."
"Sure thing."
"And buddy, . . . Put it in a glass, would you?"
