Happy hour

When I agreed to meet him, it was with the precondition that I consume a tranquilizing amount of aperitif. My third watermelon lemonade mojito arrived with him.

His disapproval was as sour as my drink, and I didn’t care.

As he slowly sat down, I couldn’t help but notice his receding hairline and substantial paunch. I took too much pleasure in the fact that I had aged better than he had. Perhaps it was my sunny disposition, or the mojitos.

Our arbiter was conspicuously absent, but I had a suspicion that she didn’t have a clue what a brawl the evening was promising to be. From some of the tidbits she let slip, she was under the false impression that we two combatants had forged some sort of precarious truce. When, in fact, we had independently implemented radio silence for years, and not the months she believed.

I sipped my cocktail, waiting for him to speak first. Hoping he didn’t lead with something reasonable, I needed him to remain consistent in his contempt for me. I didn’t want to waste all my righteous indignation on some anti-climatic apology.

Without a word to me, he growled his drink order at the next server to pass our table. All I could think of was how he seemed to enjoy spreading his disdain to everyone around him – an equal opportunity jackhole.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but I was feeling a little warm and fuzzy. Hunting for the tip of my straw with a wayward tongue, I watched him through squinted eyes. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be so angry all the time, to be so critical that he was dissociated from so many friends and family.

I stopped resenting him, and began to pity him. I had love and happiness with my family, I had close friends to get in trouble with, and had a contented life. I didn’t understand if he had all that too, how could he still be so disagreeable. So, in my addled brain, I became convinced he didn’t have the joys I had in my life, more the pity.

The rueful smile plastered across my face didn’t help. Trying to give his hand a motherly pat made matters worse, and the, “bless your heart,” cinched the deal. He stormed out before our waitress came back with his drink.

It was a shame to let it go to waste, even if Scotch wasn’t my drink of choice.