If a drink was meant to blurr the speech of memory, then the written word was meant to revive the metaphors of midnight conversations - when night becomes day and noon becomes a ghost of hidden intents.
The confessions are traced to the boldness of their flow and he is entertained by her sudden disposition.
"None that is said here tonight can be blamed on my own intent," she began to excuse her direct discourse, hoping that he'd believe her liberal remarks. "I blame it on the tequila."
But as he struggled to keep his eyes focused on her, movement within his thoughts kept his instability at a slower pace.
"By this time tomorrow," he began, "I will have forgotten it all."
"Then we shall await the moment when The Eye blinks," she said.
"No proof," he interrupted, "as if it never happened."
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