At the end of Saturday evening, a good friend and I had finished drinking our way through two bottles of wine, dissecting those we love and those we lost, when The Firefighter From Seattle texted an apology for his six-hour nap which caused him to be very well-rested and awake at 2:30am. He received a return text requesting his presence and booze reinforcements for “two very thirsty little girls” … to which he agreed. 

While the friend and I waited for him (and the promised beer and vodka), she asked for the dirt on him; I explained his role to which she cynically responded, “Mol, I will only believe that you would not consider doing him if you will honestly tell me that at the bowling alley you did not take a conscious note of his shoe size.”

“[…]”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Ok, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh really? What was your friend’s fiancé’s shoe size?”

“Yeah, no clue.  Point taken.”

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