Friday Night Happy Hour

One of those weeks. No disasters. No one died. The company didn't go bankrupt. I still had my job. But nothing to write home about, as they say.

Everyone just going through the motions, including me.

Two of the guys stopped me at the elevator.

"Come on Mike," Jerry said. "We're going to check the action at the Pineapple."

"Yeah," chimed in Harry. "Even you might get lucky."

How's that for encouragement? On the other hand, what else was I going to do tonight? Few girls between the office and my apartment.

The Pineapple's not the hottest spot, but attracts a crowd for Friday Night Happy Hours. Two deep at the bar. The bartenders have a reputation for a heavy hand on the pours, and the prices aren't robbery.

A couple of years ago, people would have been buying pitchers of brew. Now, all kinds of martinis and mixed drinks were the common choice. I started with a Bombay Sapphire, straight up, with an olive. A quick buzz.

Amazingly, within a few minutes, it looked like Harry might have been right.

"Good choice," said a looker, "I have mine flavored, an Appletini, but Bombay makes it great."

"Here's to good times," I said, raising my glass to hers. I bought the next two rounds.

No time wasted. Shortly, we were ensconced in one of the dark friendly booths toward the back. Very friendly. Marie, that was her name, said we didn't need much room, as she parked herself in my lap.

After nibbling my ear, she whispered "I know who you really are."

"You think you're the big bad wolf," she continued, smiling as she added, "but I know you're really a lamb."

Her smile changed as her upper eye teeth grew longer, and she closed in on my neck.