friday night.

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It started out so innocently.

Finding ourselves at a bar that also happened to have a pizza oven over in the back, Mike and I ordered a bacon-half-pineapple pizza. Not the finest example of the genre out there, but serviceable, especially in the face of a happy hour that — I wouldn’t find out till around 8:30 — didn’t end until 9pm.

By that point, we needed to head to a friend’s birthday party, in another bar, and pretty far afield.  Somehow we reasoned that we needed to properly fortify ourselves.  That’s how we ended up here:
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[Mike, I should point out, is not as grumpy as being photographed under fluorescent lights while eating Spicy Chicken McBites might otherwise indicate.  His brow is perennially furrowed, regardless of his mood.]

There was a third meal after this, one that involved a fried chicken platter with biscuits and mac n cheese that the Hasselblad and I declined to photograph.  Needless to say, by the time we got to the birthday party, we were tuckered out — more likely from the food than the beverage.  After saying our hellos and well wishes to the birthday girl, we hopped into a cab, where with my legs curled up on the backseat, I fell asleep, my head resting on Mike’s lap.

One of those strange, long nights that, upon reflection [read: looking at the previous evening’s texts the following morning], ended far earlier than these photos suggest.  We’re early bird night owls, me and Mike, tucked into bed at our respective apartments by midnight.  Midnight!  We are getting old.
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