Myrna, left: “I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.”

William, not so much left: “Nor do I. Perhaps she’s discussing stock options, with that bit about alternative arrangements.”

Bartender, background: “I could clear up the confusion in two seconds, but you people haven’t won any awards for your tipping tonight, so… no.”

Maureen, right: “Let’s drink to our promising future! Or at least the rest of the evening.”

Myrna: “Still no clue. Luckily, she’s been guzzling spirits like there’s some sort of prize at the end, so she’s really not aware that we’re dissing her right in front of her face. Still, the intellectual part of me is slightly intrigued by her end game.”

William: “Yes, it’s fascinating in a car-crash sort of way. We really shouldn’t look, but somebody out there might get a blog post out of it.”

Bartender: “Five bucks and I’ll let the sunshine in.”

Maureen: “So are we in agreement that we can all benefit from this situation?”

Myrna: “I’m not agreeing to anything without reading the fine print. The last time I did that I ended up in a thinly-veiled movie about lesbians on the Isle of Capri.”

William: “Yes, the same thing happened to me recently, when I found myself playing the stern headmaster at a private academy for boys in Scotland. I should have known something was up when the costume designer had me fitted for plaid leather pants.”

Bartender: “Oh, for the love of Pete, this woman is trying to entice you into a three-way. The tip jar is right there. Use it.”

Maureen, turning to the bartender: “Well, it doesn’t have to stop at three. What time do you get off?”

Myrna: “A three-way? As in a sexual thing? I thought we were forced to remove all hints of carnality from movie dialogue after Hedy Lamar swam naked in that German film for no apparent reason. I really need to talk to my agent about getting better scripts.”

William: “And I as well. I’m still chafed from those wretched leather pants. I haven’t walked right since the director had me do an intervention in the sauna at that Scottish Academy. Things can go awkwardly awry when the humidity is high.”

Bartender: “Should I also mention that Maureen is independently wealthy and generously rewards actors who don’t mind filming in Capri or Scotland? Tip jar, still right there.”

Maureen: “And Greece, don’t forget that locale. The sunlight is gorgeous this time of year.”

Myrna: “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to options. Bette Davis seems to be getting all the decent roles in America, so it might be time to think internationally.”

William: “And now that I ponder it, despite the chafing, I did look rather fetching in those leather headmaster pants. Perhaps we should have a conference call with our agents?”

Bartender: “Hold up, I sense a shift in the planetary alignment. Based on my years of experience watching misguided people drinking misguided beverages, I believe that Maureen has just crossed the sip too far. Brace yourselves.”

Maureen: “I can’t stand anybody in this room and I never want to finance another movie again.”

Myrna: “Well, that fizzled out rather quickly. This is what I get for daring to envision the logistics that a three-way might entail.”

William: “And I was already thinking about the tax break I could get by wearing sadomasochistic couture in a foreign country. The dream has died.”

Bartender: “If you’d only tipped me in a decent manner, I could have warned you about this. We bartenders know things. And the next developmental point in her 80-proof journey is that Maureen will disintegrate into confusion and accusations.”

Maureen: “What happened to my olive? Are we in Cairo? What’s up with all these sandstorms and horny camels running amok? This was not mentioned in the brochure for this hotel and somebody is going to pay or my name isn’t Cleoflatra!”

Myrna: “Wow. She jumped on that crazy train pretty fast.”

William: “Welcome to Hollywood.”

Bartender: “Or Cairo.”

Maureen: “Pyramids are ugly and I hate them.”

Myrna: “And I think we’re done here. Shall we sally forth?”

William: “Splendid idea. Let’s go.”

Bartender: “But the tip jar…”

Maureen: “Stop those people! They might have my olive!”

Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 06/29/17. Modified modestly for this post. Later that early morning, Maureen woke up at a local diner to discover that she had ordered twelve plates of biscuits and gravy and a slice of cherry pie…

Olive: “Thank you for snatching me out of her glass. Her tongue was getting closer and closer to touching me.”

William: “I know exactly what you mean.”