champagne brunch

I’m sitting across from him, a pitcher of mimosas between us. I keep drinking them. One after the other, avoiding conversation, I’m good at this, I fucking love champagne.

“Marlowe, will you just talk to me, please?” he says, his wannabe Kennedy good looks grimacing.

“Sure, Skip why did you sleep with your secretary? You’re such a cliché.”

He looks at me.

“I forgot you were a private investigator, Marlowe.”

“I forgot you were a trust fund asshole, Skip.”

“Hi, what would you like?” the waitress, blue haired but preppy, interrupts.

“Avocado toast, please.” “Eggs Benedict

• 0