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“Jammer!” Grace squealed.  “You’re just in time.  We’re about to raid the bar for some real drinks.  Come with us!”
         Grace dropped my arm in favor of his and started off toward the stairs to the upper deck, cooing and flirting with James all the way.  I merely shook my head and followed along behind them.
         Once we reached the upper deck, James slipped behind the bar and started pulling out bottles of liquor.  Vodka, tequila, whisky, gin, it all seemed to be available.
         “What’s your flavor, ladies?” he asked with a wink.
         “I’m sweet and tangy,” Grace purred, winking right back at him.
          I flopped down on one of the stools and leaned forward against the bar.  “I’ll just have whatever she’s having,” I said, humorlessly.  I didn’t know why, because Grace was always outrageous, but her overt flirting with James was getting on my nerves.  I didn’t have any claim on the man, but for some reason I was feeling a tad territorial.  I stuffed my grumbly feelings deep down and put on a bright smile.
         James studied the bottles closely as if he were running through a myriad of concoctions he could make for us.  Finally, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay.  Two Screwdrivers coming right up.”
         I reflexively thrust out my hand to stop him, shouting “No!” just as he reached for the bottle of Ketel One.  He jumped back a step and dropped the bottle back down on the bar.  He just looked at me with his mouth halfway open.
         “Don’t you dare befoul that vodka with something as vile as orange juice!” I exclaimed.
         “Befoul?” he asked quizzically.
         “Yes, befoul, contaminate, pollute, dirty, ruin…” I ticked off various synonyms on my fingers.
         “Is there some campaign against oranges that I’m not familiar with?” he asked.
         “There should be!” I huffed.  “Orange juice is the worst, most revolting beverage on the planet.”
         “No, it’s not.  That’s gin.  Orange juice is deliciously refreshing and good for you.”
         “It’s the devil’s juice!”  I hissed.
          Grace just rolled her eyes at me and turned to James, “She really hates orange juice.”
         “Really?  I was getting the sense that she was only so-so on it,” he drawled.  “Seriously, what kind of person hates orange juice?  That’s un-American.”
         “I know, right?” Grace chimed in.  “She even makes us promise not to order it before she’ll agree to have brunch with us.”
         “What?  It’s nauseating.  I don’t want to drink it, and I don’t want to watch other people ingesting it.  Would you want to watch me eat haggis?” I asked, arching a brow at her.
         “Well, no…,” she commented with a disgusted look on her face.
         “Wait a minute, are you saying you’d eat haggis?” James asked disbelievingly.
         “No!  Of course not.  My point is just that there are some things that don’t belong in one’s mouth.”
         “Mimi!  It’s just fruit!” Grace exclaimed as James tried hard to disguise a snort with a fake cough.
         “So is grapefruit, and I won’t drink its juice, either!” I half-shouted back to her.
         “Okay,” James said, coughing into his fist again.  “Clearly we have citrus issues here.”
         “No, we don’t.  I like lemons, limes, and tangerines just fine.”
         “Isn’t a tangerine just a little orange?” James asked.  “You know what? Never mind.  We’ll go with what you had last night.  Two Greyhounds.”
     
         James pulled out a large jug of cranberry juice from the refrigerator under the bar as Jessica and Liz walked over to join us, both of them dripping wet and laughing.
         “Hey,” Liz began.  “Are you all done swimming for the day already?”
         “No,” Grace giggled.