Anything But A Scorpio. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

   

You’re not a Scorpio are you?

she asks after several enjoyable moments

together.

You mean that thing that lives under rocks?

I ask.

She chokes on her beer and shakes her head yes.

Anything but a Scorpio,

she says.

They hold grudges forever.

I don’t believe in forever,

I say.

See gives me a curious look.

The same one my parents used

to give each other.

Leo, I offer,

like the lion.

King of the jungle

and all that business.

She says Leo isn’t great,

but it’s better than a damn Scorpio.

Then she tells me she is a Scorpio.

You mean that thing with the dangerous tail?

She looks down at the stool behind her

and smiles.

   

I thought Scorpios held a grudge forever.

Exactly,

she says.

That’s why it’s good

you’re a Leo.

Even the bartender is laughing.

Hey, don’t look at me,

he throws his hands in the air

as if under arrest.

I don’t even know what

the hell I am.

A bartender,

both myself and the Scorpio

answer.

To which

we all laugh

and share a round

on the house.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.