ROUGH 2

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.”