A pitcher in and HE was just now beginning
to wind down. His skin no longer flushed, his fists no longer clenched, his
asshole no longer puckered…
“What the fuck?” HE jolted out of
his thoughts and turned to the source of the interruption.
“I’m just sayin’—you shook RICHIE’S
world so hard his dick curled up into his body and his ass tightened up in
fear.” FRIEND garbled through a mouth of bar fries.
FRIEND2 slapped HIM on the back and
joined in the celebration. “You threatened him and put him in his place in one
breath. You need a medal or some shit.” FRIEND2 suddenly got to his feet and
threw a handful of cocktail peanuts at the television. “You fucking prick of a…sack
of…damn asshole,” he muttered under his breath as he settled back into his seat
as the scoreboard changed in the opponents’ favor.
HE grinned at his friend’s
absurdity and turned his eyes away from the screen—only to meet the eyes of the
waitress. She returned his smile. “Hate to pull your focus from the match, but
it seems your pitcher’s a little low. Care for another?”
The British accent had a unique (or
perhaps not so much) effect on the group-intensifying and dulling the alcohol
at the same time. HE withdrew into an examination of his scarred palms, FRIEND2
stared in the rapt attention of the married man, and FRIEND turned on the charm
of a muskrat. “Why, cheerio, my sweet lass! Do come sit with us and rest your
pretty feet.”
Biting his tongue to refrain from
uttering his first reaction, HE directed an apologetic look at the waitress. “Forgive
my asshole friend—we don’t let him out often on account of him being socially
retarded. We would adore a refill.” He mentally face-palmed as an accent crept
into his last words—hoping she’d not heard his misstep. As he raised his eyes
to hers, he was unable to identify the intent behind her gaze. She nodded in
assent and quickly stepped away.
Nearly colliding with the approaching
female in a jersey and jeans. Apologies were exchanged and the new arrival slid
into the booth beside FRIEND2, pecking him on the cheek. FRIEND2 stuttered out
a greeting, worried that his wife had witnessed his unabashed ogling of the
waitress. Sensing the tension, or perhaps just responding to the alcohol in his
blood, FRIEND directed a loud burp in WIFEY’S direction. She pretended to take
offense as she threw a crumpled-up napkin at his forehead. “Headshot!” Shouted
HE, as the victim of the assault slumped over the table in faux-death.
She chortled and leaned her head on
her husband’s no-longer-tense shoulder. “So how badly is your loser team losing
today?” She asked to no one in particular.
FRIEND2 was first to rise to the
bait. “Hey, hey, hey…one game does not make a champion, lady.”
“Not even the finals, eh?” She
jabbed.
“The woman does have a point there,
FRIEND2.” HE laughed over the bones of a buffalo wing.
“Damn 2008 season,” He grumbled to
her delight.
“Well, enough about my supremacy
over your amateur team,” She barreled on to prevent her spouse’s retort. “Let’s
talk about Hotty McTotty waitress and the position of her crosshairs, HIM.”
HE turned a quizzical brow to WIFEY
and continued to devour the food in front of him. In womanly fashion, she took
his expression as an invitation to continue her assessment of the situation—despite
the draining clock on the television. “She’s got a nice ass, and acceptable
rack, and she…”
FRIEND garbled something behind his
napkin.
“What?” WIFEY directed his way,
suspecting foul play.
“British.” FRIEND repeated sans
napkin, then proceeded to jump to his feet to argue the images on-screen.
WIFEY turned her attention back to
HIM with a bright look in her eyes. “Well, that decides it. She’s British—you have
to ravage that woman. It’s your duty as an American.”
“What?” HE laughed through the
query.
“Yeah, they’re into all sorts of crazy
shit across the pond! Behind their bad oral hygiene lies a country of oral
fixations.”
A moment of sobriety struck FRIEND2
and he interrupted wife’s speech. “Honey, calm down. Everything you know about
England was learned from Monty Python
and Doctor Who. I don’t think that
qualifies you to…” The moment passed and FRIEND2 buried his hand in his hands
as the final buzzer sounded from the speakers.
His wife’s attention was transferred
to the source of FRIEND2’s agony. A huge grin broke out on her face and she
patted her husband on the back. “It’s going to be okay—spending your Saturday
with the kids tomorrow while I hit the spa with CINDY. Good quality Daddy-time.”
She smirked and stood up to leave. Leaning into his ear, she whispered loud
enough for the whole bar to hear, “At least this time your team only lost by
five points.”
