“Pamela, I don’t think I can keep this up,” Mena said.
“Whaddya mean?” Pamela’s words slurred and she lifted the glass to her mouth. She took a long draft, and as Mena was about to reply, interrupted her. “I don’ think we can be shtopped. Ha. Shtopped. I meant stopped, but it came out with a little hint of,” she started whispering, “quiet down.”
“I mean, I think we’ve been drinking too much. It’s not good for us, or our livers.”
“Naw, is fine. Didn’ you read the report? They say alcohol has less affect here in Mars, the docs say iss all good. Drink up, buttercup!” She finished her drink and slammed the glass onto the pub table. Mena watched in fear, worried it would smash, relieved it didn’t, and back to worried for the next one.
“You can’t trust that, Pam. Mars isn’t like home. They’ll publish anything here. I saw the article, but the same paper had another article about Doctors getting money from the breweries. I think we should stop. Or at least try not to drink quite so much, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, Mena. You bleeding hearts with your temperance nonsense. Oh hey, you wanna hear somethin’ funny?”
Mena sighed. “Sure.”
“You remember Dave?”
“The guy from the ship here?”
“Yeah! My seatmate. He asked me out, we been dating for like two weeks now.”
“What? You hated his hitting on you for the seventh months’ flight here. You said you’d be glad never to see him again.”
“I know, but desperate times, Mena, desperate times.”
Mena sighed again. “Okay, well, be careful. He didn’t seem the most, uh, honest of guys.”
Pamela stood. “Sure sure. Hey, I gotta go, uhh, what’s the phrase, piss. Pee. Bust a yizz? Squeeze the proverbial lemon. Then Dave’s comin over, so I’m out. You got this?”
“Sure, Pam. Have fun.”
“I always do baby, yeaaah!” Pamela stumbled off to the bathroom. Mena signaled the bartender for the bill, and dug out her wallet to settle up both their tabs.