“If you were dead, would you want to know?” I ask. The waitress had just taken our orders and menus from us, and my friend was sipping his lager while his eyes followed her swaying hips.
He groaned.
“Not the night for philosophy,” he said, turning toward me.
“Sorry,” I smile, reaching for my glass. I sniff the sweet smell of berries and apples, then set it back down. “You’re tired.” I hear a consenting grunt. “Another party?”
“It was a blast.”
“You look blasted,” I agree.
“I had a great time.”
“I guess our nights aren’t for philosophy anymore.”
Tale Told 