Patches, Trax, and Cupcake draped their lethargy-pumped bodies around a wooden table obscured from view of other patrons. It was humid inside the private alcove; but the importance of privacy far outstripped the inconvenience of a sweaty brow.
They nursed their drinks, musing over past days. With markings on the tops of their hands, silvery declarations of title, they were distinctive from the others. Atop the table, among the varied condense-tipped glasses, was a book.
"Put one palm on top and stroke the pages with the other. Think about your question until it feels...right. Then open to the page you touch."
Questions were asked and answered. Though many of the cryptic messages required the combined interpretations of hope and cynicism, often enough the text spoke loudly and clearly.
"Am I good in bed?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Ouch. That's gotta burn.
The book was then unceremoniously tossed, to be replaced by another round.
Priorities.
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