Some time ago I met a man, scraggly beard and broken posture.
He asks if I want to drink with him, to the shattering sun.
The sky was bleeding and the sun was closer than needed. Meat comes to a nice sear outside.

I refuse his drink. Wine, real wine, Vosne Romanee, one of the top 100 most expensive wines he says.
He wants someone to share it with before we cook like the meat outside.
I'm not sure if I want to be inebriated at this occassion.

He's genuinely surprised.
He asks if I'm really going to face the shattering sun sober.
Better than bumbling lunacy, I reply. He doesn't let me know it, but he feels insulted.

He takes the chalice, golden, studded with fine jewels, with several carats.
The man likes calling himself Abandon. He says that he's being charitable, merciful by not telling me his actual name.
From the closed restaurant's windows we look out onto the burning earth.

I manage to squeeze out a few more sobs before sitting down on the only other chair in the locale. It's lavish, cushions and pillows and fabrics, oh my.
The man sits on another one of its kind, the only other one.
He offers me the drink again, and again. I refuse.

The meat outside comes to a perfect medium rare.