“Sorry I was late,” he says to me. Turning to the bartender. “Two,” he looks at me. “What are you having?”
“The winter stout.” The bartender nods and pours.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he repeats himself.
“It’s cool,” I say, jerking my head in the direction of the hyper-clear television screen showing a round up of scores for the night. It’s a Monday. Hockey’s on. “The Bruins are beating the Islanders.”
“Where are the Islanders?”
“New York. The Bruins are us.”
“I know that,” he says. We both laugh uncomfortably.