'Happy Hour' by Emily Hall

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.”