just desserts

One of my best friends, Dayton, is coming to visit me (and the rest of Europe) in a few weeks.

We worked together in Rhode Island, where we originally bonded because the innkeeper's daughter-in-law spat fire at the two of us.

She really, really hated us, just us. She used to think up mean things to say and do to us and save them up just so she could use them at opportune moments.

And then we bonded because of the Hell That Is Sunday Brunch.

You know, the churchgoers who leave you a nice verbal tip instead of one you can take to the bank.

But it was okay because we'd eat to make ourselves feel better: plates of Eggs Benedict, loads of salads, innumerable crab and salmon cakes, and the desserts. Oh, the desserts.

And then we bonded this past winter because I really didn't want to be there and he really didn't want to be there.

So we'd sit on the steps in the dining room, put our arms around each other and cry.

Okay, I'd cry. He would just look really sad and mournful.

We'd psych each other up to get through the shift.

"Just think Amsterdam," he'd say to me.

"Just think Europe," I'd say back.

Dayton is the friend I partyed in New York with.

He's the friend who first got me to eat meat after I went vegetarian.

He's the friend who I can say anything to.

Or nothing at all.

And now we'll both be here instead of there:

betholindo at 12:45 p.m.

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