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Angelina’s dour expression finally burst, like the first ray of dawn’s light, into a soft smile. “Forgive the rudeness earlier. I think it’s just Miguel’s lighter fluid talking,” she said, glaring at the bartender and then her shot glass. “No problem. If it was every day that I got mistaken for Lois Lane, I wouldn’t have so many self-esteem issues,” I said jokingly. “So, would I be completely out of line if I asked you why you’re in some place like this?” She shook her head. “Just traveling. Taking a break. Drove out from California.” I nodded. “I just thought most of the Hollywood A-List would be out vacationing at some fancy schmancy resort in the mountains.” Angelina replied with a snort that would’ve made a Clydesdale proud. “Shit. I can’t think of anything more boring than standing around in the sub-zero fucking cold trying to careen down a mountain with two little poles in my hands. I mean, Sonny Bono bit it that way. No thanks,” she said.
I laughed. “Hear hear,” I replied, raising my as yet untouched shot of tequila. “So, why are *you* heading through?” Angelina asked, looking soberly at me. “Joining some friends for Cinco de Mayo,” I answered, downing the shot. I immediately felt a sharp sting of warmth slide down my gullet and all through my chest. I grimaced and immediately said, “Fuck! That’s stout.”