Vodka tonic dribbles from the corner of Mom’s mouth. Discarded limes, all squeezed out, rest beside unused dinner forks.
“Never wanted to be a mother,” she murmurs, slumped over.
Miles offshore, passenger ferries blow lonely horns. Sandcastles, built by loving families, dissolve into mud.
“Yeah, you’ve said this many times,” I confirm, quietly.
In her dark sunglasses, my reflected image is distorted.
“Like another?” Bartender asks us, meaning drinks, but we answer as if he’s reading our hearts instead.
“No.”
“Yes.”
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