“Drink up, you sissy!” Giana laughs, sipping at the straw of her way-too-strong bloody mary.
I just cough, looking askance at mine. “G, this is like 90% vodka, 5% tomato juice, and the rest is horseradish. Honestly, it’s basically clear.”
“I am freshly a widow, Iris,” Giana says, even as she laughs. “You are not allowed to critique my bartending skills – it is rude, this is part of my grieving process.”
And I laugh with her then, a little baffled and impressed by the way that she’s covering her clear grief with a thick layer of bravado and humor. But I can see it there – in the way her jokes are a bit too brash, the way she pastes her smile determinedly on.
So I roll my eyes, taking another sip of the drink and coughing when it fails to go down smoothly. Giana grins and pats me on the
