They’d started drinking at noon. It’s one o’clock the next morning when Liz finally curls up on the beanbag in the lounge-room. The still dark heat, or some drunk obsession, keeps Jan from falling into bed, makes her start to clean up – wipe the salt shaker’s bottom of its crust of salt and lime juice, put the empty tequila bottle in the recycling bin, swigging the last drop of smoky gold from it on her way.
‘Santa Tequila,’ she whispers, eyes closed against the shiver of it.
After attending their ex-lover’s funeral, two women hold their own private wake.
‘Viva Baby, Viva!’ appeared in New Zealand literary journal Sport 29 (Spring 2002).