me: haha ... until i text you at 11 p.m. and say 'i could go out'
him: noooooo. we have 'the wire' and we're going out on thursday.
me: oh. right.
[uncomfortable silence. i know my body.]
i was right. and here comes the text message.
"i could go out." i write.
"i'm at cub," he writes. he's at the grocery store.
i don't respond.
then he writes, 10 minutes later, "i could go out."
i wonder who veered into chuck's shopping path with a shopping cart filled with easy mac, twinkies and grape soda. sniffed his armpits and stared at a maxim magazine with his mouth ajar. this person just convinced chuck that beer is good. i should send this derelect a thank-you note.
and so we do. rt quinlan's is empty. the bartender laughs at my third beer request. a smirky something that says "really, christa? you think you need that?"
luckily he isn't judgey enough to censor me. he fills it. i tell him i'm splitting it with chuck. he calls us a cab.
outside, waiting for the cab, we discuss michael phelps' terrible dentistry with some regulars.
our cab driver is wasted. very obviously out of his head drunk. when a police car's lights go on behind us, our driver freaks out:
"they're after me," he's convinced.
skids to a left turn, the cop passes. if i were a cop, i'd probably not assume i should pull over a cab driver.
back home, the cab driver fumbles with chuck's change. almost gives him 60 dollars change for driving us home [five dollars].
back at home we eat artisan bread. chuck lays on the floor and listens to coast to coast. i can hear him laughing from outside. he looks uncomfortable.
one of you in the internet needs to make me some annie's macaroni and cheese.
freaking tuesday's. you look so much like a friday.