Another pub night

“We can’t go in together,” Boots said as she was about to make her triumphant return to a Wednesday pub night. “I’m being followed by an unmarked police car.”
You never know what she’s mixed up in.
(I kid.)
“Maybe they’re following you. They’re going around the block.”
“I have to pee.”
“I’m going to get my mail, then.”
Turns out, the unmarked car carried two big fats guys. They were looking for the post office.
“I still think they were undercover cops.”
Boots came from the gym, by way of Costco (sporting a new jacket made by 2-year-olds in Myanmar).
I came to the pub by way of the Westside Trails.
The Meat-Eating Robot came by way of the Boulder Creek Trail at Whiskeytown.
It was a disjointed night at the pub. Boots was cruising for a fight (and why not? her news was good and her mood bouncy), politicians stopped by the table and friends old and new stopped. It was another chaotic, loud, spectacularly fun night.
“I’m Switzerland,” a friend said in response to something I didn’t catch.
“I’m Belgium,” I said to the Robot. “’Cause they have good chocolate.
“And they have those things, I dunno, they’re like waffles.
“Oh, Belgian waffles.”
And the Robot gave me a look.
And we both started to laugh.
It was that kind of night.
Silly.
(And yes, Boots broke out a costume; the gal loves her costumes.)