Whew! That’s over with. I felt ever so much lighter. I went to a little tavern down the street from the clinic to celebrate and unwind. The Last Straw, according to the sign over the door. “What can I get’cha?” the well-built but not quite burly bartender asked. I thought about a glass of cold white wine, but reconsidered. Maybe that would be inappropriate. “A Coke or something,” I said.

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic,” he said, cocking his head to the side and smiling as if he knew my secret.

“What do you suggest—I mean in the way of something fizzy and non-alcoholic?”

He recommended the black raspberry soda, and I said that sounded fine to me. A moment later he set the uncapped bottle on the bar. “Want a glass?” he asked.

“No, the bottle’s fine,” I said.

He nodded, as if in approval, and stuck a plastic straw into the bottle. “Enjoy,” he said. “First one’s on the house.”

I took a sip. It was good. “Just what I needed,” I told the barman. He nodded, smiling seriously.

“But you know what?” The voice came from behind me, and I turned on my barstool. A good looking guy. He almost could have been the bartender’s twin. I almost turned back to the bar, to see if there wasn’t some kind of magic going on. Something done with smoke and mirrors. Best I could recall there was no mirror behind the bar.

“What?” I asked.

“The straw,” he said. “Really bad news for the planet.”

“Straw is bad news for the planet?” I said.

“Uh huh. Did you know that in the typical beach clean-up the most common pollutant picked up is the seemingly innocent straw?”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“It’s true. Plastic straws are a major menace to the well-being of the earth.”

“I wasn’t planning on taking this to the beach,” I said.

He gave me a mild “oh really” look. “Well, that’s something,” he said. His tone implied it wasn’t nearly enough.

“For that matter, I didn’t ask for the straw. They just gave it to me.” I was tempted to turn back to the bartender. I was a little embarrassed for implicating him.

“Here,” I said, removing the straw from my soda bottle. “You take it. I’m fine with the bottle.” A droplet of black raspberry soda flew from the end of the straw and landed on the guy’s cheek. He brushed the droplet with his thumb and sucked his thumb into his mouth.

“Mmm, good,” he said, and he took the offered straw. He kissed the end that I’d sipped from. I’m not sure if I found that gross or endearing. When I think back on it now it makes me shiver a little in almost a sexual way. As if he’s gently sucking my clit. Sucking and sucking until I’m hopelessly beyond being able to do anything but come.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked him.

“Add it to my collection,” he said. “Can I have your name? For the ID?”

“Faith,” I told him.

“Pleased to meet you, Faith,” he said. “I’m Sandy.”

“Like at the beach,” I commented.

“Exactly,” he said. “If you want to see my straw collection sometime, just give me a call.” He wrote down his number on a napkin and handed it to me.

“I will,” I told him.

But I know I won’t. Although I am kind of curious.

For right now, I’m going to resist the urge to masturbate. Even though I’m so horny. Instead I’m going to write a poem. About a straw. A barber pole striped straw. Floating in the sea. Floating and floating and floating. Unsinkable. The last straw in the whole wide world.