I look in the fridge and there's only a beat-up pancake which I planned to serve Dave for lunch the next day. So now we are sitting at the bar in my fav downtown pizza place and the girl getting our drinks says this is her seventh day on the job. She is pouring my second Kessler's and diet and the real bartender comes over and explains how to use the pour over method with the shot glass. "This way the customer gets a little more booze," he says, winking at me, love that man. She had not performed this technique on my first cocktail and I am wondering if she could slip in a little extra whiskey to compensate for the inadequate first drink.
But I never actually ask that question and my gaze goes to the end of the bar where a couple sits eating pizza and talking loudly on their cell phones. "Do you think they're talking to each other?" I ask Big Dave but he is chewing and watching the basketball game. I turn to the guy on the other side and say, "their conversations aren't even interesting." He looks at me bleary-eyed and emits a cherry-flavored liqueur belch. I sense this is the end of our conversation.
For awhile I had a rule we never dine in restaurants with TVs but then I'd miss out on Champ's chicken salad and a lot of other things. And then I had a rule we would never sit at a bar to eat a meal but then I would need to wait an hour and a half for a cup of Appleby's tomato basil soup, unreasonable.
"You have too many rules," says the Dave. "Mmmrmph," I respond. Marriage is made up of these one syllable responses that contain no vowels and they also relay the message, no further conversation, thank god.
And now the pizza is gone and the novice bartender is asking the chunky cherry-smelling boy if he needs a ride home. I say, if you need to ask, he needs the ride.
But I never actually ask that question and my gaze goes to the end of the bar where a couple sits eating pizza and talking loudly on their cell phones. "Do you think they're talking to each other?" I ask Big Dave but he is chewing and watching the basketball game. I turn to the guy on the other side and say, "their conversations aren't even interesting." He looks at me bleary-eyed and emits a cherry-flavored liqueur belch. I sense this is the end of our conversation.
For awhile I had a rule we never dine in restaurants with TVs but then I'd miss out on Champ's chicken salad and a lot of other things. And then I had a rule we would never sit at a bar to eat a meal but then I would need to wait an hour and a half for a cup of Appleby's tomato basil soup, unreasonable.
"You have too many rules," says the Dave. "Mmmrmph," I respond. Marriage is made up of these one syllable responses that contain no vowels and they also relay the message, no further conversation, thank god.
And now the pizza is gone and the novice bartender is asking the chunky cherry-smelling boy if he needs a ride home. I say, if you need to ask, he needs the ride.
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