I didn't see you standing there. Do you mean you're waiting for me? You know you're rather a stranger in these parts – and I make it a point not to fraternize with outsiders.
You've been referred to me? By whom? Do I know this person by name? Oh. Yes – a co-worker. And you've been described as smooth, yet biting and delicious? I notice the cherries – what purpose do they serve? No, I'm not being cheeky, I just don't see them working successfully with a jigger of whiskey.
You know, I've never trusted whiskey. Something masculine about it. The last whiskey drink I had was a whiskey and soda I ordered when I was out on a date. It's an old story, Mr. Sour, and I don't think I need to go into detail.
What? My, you are talkative for a famous mixed drink whose sources date back to the 1870's. I agree – this is our Christmas party, and my intention is to get beautifully tanked before the appetizers are served. I'm not sure how you know this, but yes, it is time to celebrate – sloppily.
And…you like my skirt? Now you're making me nervous. I'm old, and I don't know how to deal with compliments anymore. But in that case, let me say that that is a pretty glass – squat but graceful: I wish I could manage that.
OK. My sobriety is boring me, and I'm sure it's boring everyone else at this table (I'm a jolly drunk, Mr. Sour, trust me ) Are you a sipping drink? I will approach you as such – I did so enjoy our conversation, and it would be tragic for it to dissipate quickly.
You deny your family name – you are sweet, sublime, and with each sip the maraschino cherries delight and tease my vision. You, sir, are an adorable drink, and you are very well met.