After all my hopes were dashed, on Tuesday the 6thfloorhos (well, most of them), dragged me down the street for happy hour. Okay, I lie. They didn’t have to drag me. After the week I’ve had, I was basically sprinting.
So we get there. (We frequent the place, just so you know.) And we don’t get Hotwaiter. We get Cutewaiter, which, as far as I’m concerned is better, because I’ve already scouted Hotwaiter and he has a girlfriend. At least Cutewaiter may still be attainable. You know, just for fun.
He asks for our orders. I’m one (or seven) drinks in, so I brazenly say, “A boyfriend, please.” To my amazement, Cutewaiter sits down next to me and says something like, “Well here I am.”
He was joking, but then again, so was I. Kind of. I don’t date waiters.
But when the check came, I left this.
The blurred-in part is my phone number. My friend Sarah was good enough to take a picture. I don’t expect to hear from him, but I figured it’d at least make for a good blog.
Did it work?