A Memory - or, "Ain't No Wheatgrass at Our Bluegrass"

"I'm going to get us a drink", he whispered, climbing past me to the aisle and disappearing into the darkness of the theatre. The song ended, a second was sung, and a third. A piece of the darkness took on human form and a paper cup was thrust into my hand as he clambered back into his seat. I took a sip, then another. "What is this?", I asked, thinking, It tastes like pop, he knows I don't drink pop. "Sprite" was the reply, and I looked over to see one eyebrow raised mischievously, and a smile on his lips. Noting my confusion, he reached over and twirled the straw around for a few moments, sending the ice cubes crashing against each other and the sides of the cup. I took another sip and grinned in recognition. "...or, more accurately, seven and seven," he said happily.