I’m sorry, Mr. Heavily Tatted Server Guy.
I wanted to buy you a shot – God knows you could have used one, dealing with all us. And your colleague the Sunday prior – send a bloody mary to that poor thing.
We can be too much.
A party of 8-12-15-20-plus.
We are 27, 34, 40, 47 – points in between.
Rotating in and out. Never in the same seat twice. Sometimes sharing the seat.
Minglers. Talkers. Huge flirts.
Turn that music up so we can dance to it! He and I, anyway.
Smokers in and out. Tequila shooters back and forth to the bar.
The conversation: people, art, sex, religion, internet marketing.
I know, right? We are seriously witty and bawdy about God and SEO.
Where is so-and-so? Still getting ready. She sent me a photo of her dress.
Text her. Tweet her. Do we need a hashtag for this dinner?
“Get off your phone!”
Photos – lots of them. Shot from above so we look thinner.
Arm raised, fingers clasped, kiss caught – blown from the other end of the table.
A toast – to the birthday, the new job, the engagement, the divorce, because we’re awesome.
Food – a little of this, a little of that. The special. Six different apps. Dressing on the side. Grits instead of fries. Three desserts and ten spoons.
“I’m just drinking.”
The checks? Well – those two are together. And these two. The four of them. The rest of us are separate. Put the little girl on mine. That lady over there – we’ll split that one among all … 24 of us?
Alright, y’all, everybody good?
Where are we headed next?