who's that lady?

Ringside. What a world. Of course by this point I'm used to its terrible splendor. But at the time, living with the "ever Fly Brett White" (and he is), we would occasionally go out to The Best Damn Party In Town on that wonderous Saturday night known as 80s night. Not that I have that strong of an affinity to the 80s music, but hey, why not? It beats going to dive bars or other watering holes chock full o' Duke students (and you know who you are, jerks). So there we are at the self-proclaimed Best Damn Party In Town. Brett's girlfriend at the time has a friend in town who I've reluctantly accepted the task of entertaining (read: buying drinks, smiling, laughing at stupid jokes, and distracting her from the fact that her friend is too busy with her boyfriend to pay her much attention).

But what?

Who is THAT? No. Harris. No. It's cliche to fall for the bartender. You can't--my god she's hot. Sigh. Time go go....

Three days later.....

Yay for trivia night at the Joyce! Oh well, I lose again. But... who is this captivating woman sitting next to me? Why doe she seem familiar? And what's this? She's talking to me? Blind me! She--she's the bartender! And she likes talking to me? Must deftly insert request for phone number: "oh, my friends are leaving and i need to work in the morning and my house is on fire and my cat is hungry. but i really want to talk to you some more. can we exchange numbers?" Real slick, kiddo. But somehow it worked. We actually, and I'm not kidding, exchanged numbers on matchbooks. I still have mine.

to be continued...