Marugarita | Amano Writing Club Work

"Give me a Margarita. Make the salt on the rim heavy."

I clicked my dry throat in the corner of a dive bar.
My internal organs, accustomed to sipping the muddy water of the underworld, needed that pretentious cocktail.

The bartender said nothing, just smiled fearlessly.
Until he pulled a dull, gleaming silver machine—a vicious pair of hair clippers—from his pocket,
I thought it was going to be a superb night.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. How many millimeters?"

"...3 millimeters. Don't make a pro say it twice."

Cold metal crawled along the nape of my neck.

"It's our specialty. The 'Marugarita'."

A tremendous whirring sound tore through the silence, and my proud hair scattered mercilessly onto the floor.
Even the will to resist was stolen away by his brilliant technique.

Three minutes later, a stranger with a bare, bluish scalp stood in the mirror.

"...Not bad. With my head feeling lighter, my footwork for the next job should be lighter too."

"I'll be waiting for you next time with a 'Gobu-garita'."

I slapped a thousand-yen bill down and disappeared into the night city. The blowing night wind stung my exposed scalp more mercilessly than ever.

(End)

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