MOJITOS AND A TURQUOISE NECKLACE (from a novel in progress)
Maya pointed to an ad in Arizona Highways for a place called The Blue Buddha Bar and she was driving the Yukon so I said, Sure, why not? and I buckled up, the Camaro fueled with the key under the mat, white roses resting at the Comfort Inn, and two police cars side-by-side flashed lights but no sirens down Navajo Drive as we pulled into the Buddha. Inside, blue neon striped the bar and high spotlights spilled amber on tables and booths. The waitress mixed 60s Indian-chic retro with green day-glow earring loops. Maya ordered while I wondered how long I’d last here with my side shrieking from a million screaming nerve-ends. I’d lifted two vials of pills from the hospital, but not the Pentacozine. I wanted to numb the pain for a while until the waitress served two cocktails with contrails. Dry ice vapor. The waitress gave her spiel about the house specialty drinks. Blue Velvets. “You know you never order sushi in the desert, right?” I said. “Sushi?” Maya si