Sunday. Brunch party. Brooklyn. The drinks
are bottomless. You know what I mean? It’s

a smart enough scheme. You flourish your
instrument, instead of water, waiters pour

booze in it. Someone is brilliant, but I’m not
fit to drink. It makes me less sharp, more

apt to reveal unsavory things. Reader, have
you ever considered the flexibility of BYOB?

Interested in limits, I decided to bring my own
cocaine. Why? asked my date. Well, I replied,

I fancy the taste, but more than that, what it
does to my brain – I like to act fast, speak in

excess. Have you any brunch secrets you wish
to reveal? Well sometimes my eyes quick-drift

to the waitress. She must be twenty, her pants
must contain planets and I yearn for Mars,

for trips to a moon, and not even ours. In my
latent daydreams, she proffers me pills on a

plush velvet pillow, recites verse in a patois so
palatable, so Northern European, I can’t even

stand it. Looking down now, I powder my nose,
then next thing I know, the restaurant dissolves

and it’s just us two, a semblance of we – so we
finish the blow with her gorgeous house keys.