Carolann typically didn’t run hot like this, but Brad was drunk and she was too, so the rush of her anger came on like a train on fire after a steady build all evening. She’d listened to him talk about their love life jokingly to their friends all during their annual Cinco de Mayo excursion, but that alone didn’t set her off. Tensions had been running high between them for months, the kind of steady decline in kindness she’d come to expect from relationships. Yet such cynicism didn’t make her immune when it happened. Instead it just made her angry, a poke of hot coals under drag kindling. And when Brad told the uncomfortable group of revelers that he had a better chance of getting lucky with the nuns having dinner at a nearby table than when he got home, Carolann threw her margarita at him as if it were a reflex. Not the drink, but the entire glass. It launched from her hand like a rocket and smacked Brad in his high forehead, shattering and then landing, somewhat incredibly, on its tacky emerald green cactus base. Tequila was never her drink anyhow, and if she was quite honest about the situation, Brad really wasn’t her type either. She decided right then, as she dizzily watched the twinkle of the shards on the concrete and the horrified looks of her friends who attended to Brad’s bloody face, that she was going to give up both. Neither were worth this kind of trouble and neither tasted particularly good. Let the nuns have at him, Carolann thought to herself as she snuck away from the chaos she’d created. She was going next door to have a gin and tonic and maybe meet a guy she found palatable without a lime wedge.

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