She couldn’t place the accent; it was thick, yet, undefined.
Tasting the noxious brew again, Tilde Tittle decided the tonic had all the flavor of an undercooked umlaut and realized that she could never present such an inferior libation to her cavillous husband, Mark. Perhaps the shaken concoction of raspberry vodka, Sprite soda and DeKupyer Razzmatazz liqueur was too ambitious.
Even though she was wearing acute négligée, she was certain that Mark would see through her façade and complain bitterly. Yet, Tilde was tired and she figured she would just take her chances. She carried the drink from the wet bar, sashaying seductively across the shag carpet.
As Tilde approached her husband, he nailed her with a baleful glare askance (imagine, if you will, a sidelong glance with one questioning eyebrow arched like a hairy circumflex.) Taking one sip from the proffered martini glass, Mark’s expression changed to shock.
With all the subtlety of a linguolabial trill, Mark forcefully spewed the liquid from his lips. As the hazy red alcoholic mist hung in the charged atmosphere between them, Mister Tittle flew into a tizzy:
“What is the matter with you, woman? How dare you use me for your grand delusional mixological experimentation!
“Is it not enough that you got tossed out of bartending school after failing the professional server certification test for the third time?
“Where did you ever get the idea that you could possibly improve on the venerable martini?
“Any fool knows that the only true martini consists of gin and vermouth!”
“Why, I just ought to . . .”
At the height of this apoplectic articulation, he experienced a bout of spiritus asper and suffered a sustained voiced palatal implosive. Thus deprived of oxygen, he collapsed onto the carpet and expired.
Leaning over his recumbent form, she whispered, “I always knew you would die a critic, Mark.”
Copyright © 2016 by Mitchell Allen