McPherson strolled into the bar, a quaint establishment he’d frequented for years.
The bartender nodded at him, already reaching for the gin and vermouth.
With a practiced hand, he mixed a Martini and slid it across the polished wood.
With each Martini, McPherson savored the crisp, cold sip before fishing out the olive and depositing it into a mason jar he’d brought along.
The other patrons watched with a mix of curiosity and amusement as the jar slowly filled.
After his umpteenth Martini, McPherson screwed the lid on the jar, now brimming with olives, and rose to leave.
A fellow at the bar, who had been eyeing the peculiar ritual, couldn’t contain his bewilderment any longer.
“Excuse me,” he called out as McPherson passed by. “I’ve got to ask, what’s with the olives?”
McPherson paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Oh, that,” he said with a chuckle. “My wife sent me out for a jar of olives.”
