At Joey’s
I get to Joey’s early. Thirsty? Eager to once again present myself to Becky?
Bartender Harry drafts a brew, knowing my preference. Minutes go by and I cannot help thinking of my underwear stuffed into the glove compartment of my car. I parked well off into the nearly empty lot, furtively rummaging about to remove shoes and slacks and slide off my jockey shorts, looking this way and that for onlookers. Redressing, the deed went unnoticed, but why I simply didn’t bare myself in a stall in the office men’s room evidences the state of my rattled mind.
Somewhat late, Becky enters. For some reason her stately gait seems imposing. She smiles from a distance and without a word nods to the back room. On a Monday evening there are few diners, she assumes I want to talk alone... and righ
