I sought counsel from my husband’s best friend,
a blind-drunk soothsayer slumped
on a stool, scar-stippled arms
heavy on the bar.  

Where was he last night?  

Illuminated by sick citrine sheen of
bare bulbs and cheap vodka,
he gazed deep into his crystal highball.  

You’re a smart girl, he slurred.
You’ll be fine.  

Last call, I heard, and my ears burned.  

He drained his glass with a snap.
Ice cubes clicked with clarity,
vicious and sharp.