Fiction in 58, Happy Hour

I haven’t done a Fiction in 58 in forever. Feels kind of rusty.

Happy Hour
“How much ice in your drink?”
“Ice. How. Much.”
He focuses on the soft features of her face, the small crinkles around her mouth, which is down turned, disapproving.
“Fuck do I care?”

Her wrist flicks ice into the highball.
“This is your last, babe.”

Death, he thinks, mid-swallow, comes too damn slow to those who deserve it.
“Set me up.”