One Sip Will Do

No more women with tattoos of a pot and a rabbit. He thought nothing of it when he had first undressed her, but now, staring at all these bottles, all he could think of was Fatal Attraction.

Breaking up was hard, at least with her. What made it harder was that he had to drink to ease the pain in his head. Which bottle? Color? Choose wrong, and it'd get worse, she'd said. Only one would help.

He drew a breath, looked at the ceiling-mounted camera, gave her the finger, hoped for the best, but braced himself for excruciating pain.

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