Fiction | January 30, 2018
Anklewood
Karen Tucker
Of course, Luce and I weren’t paid for anything so easy as bringing alcohol to alcoholics. It was more like we did that part of the job for free and putting up with the rest of it was what earned us our money. Stupid stuff, mostly. A palm trying to cup your butt when you had a tray in one hand and someone’s beer in the other. A body grazing up against your backside while you waited for the bartender to hurry up and finish making your drinks.
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