Violet Hour

“Whatcha drinking?” yells a woman from the end of the bar.

I swirl my glass. The sugar flower spins in a lavender eddy. “Violet Hour,” I say, more loudly than I'd planned.

“Isn't that the name of the song that's playing?” I squint trying to hear the music coming from the speakers above the door.

“I can't hear it,” I say, still swirling. “My name is Violet,” I add. I am trying to stop lying. Going without cigarettes has been easier.

She moves to the empty chair next to me. “That's what I've been talking about,” she says. She smells like a fried egg.

“What?” I say, catching a bit of lyrics… And now you`re setting upon your chair.

“Fucking coincidences everywhere, I'm telling you.”

“Hmmm… like what?”

“Violet! Violet Hour!” She slams her glass down, sloshing the last of it onto her napkin.

“Aha,” I say. “Tell me another.”

“Yesterday, I was reading a book on the bus. I looked up and there's the author sitting across from me. Right there, on the bus.”

“Like Leave Her to Heaven? Did you kill her son?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I shrug. “What are you drinking?” I ask, staring at her empty glass. “I'll get you another.”

“A margarita.”

“Funny. My name is Margarita.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she says, and grabs her coat from the chair.

“Could I have a scotch and soda?” I ask the bartender, as I toss another quarter in the jukebox.