We walked into the hot shop at around 8:30.
Fire dancers performed in front of the glory holes while the crowd milled around with plastic cups of Sixpoint. A song about broads in Atlanta blared through the speakers as we found Charlie coming out of the bar. He was supposed to be working the beer table, but the demo team needed an extra set of hands.
She pointed out that someone had scrawled “MEAT” on the ground; on the other side of the bench we could see the crime-scene chalk rendition of a turkey leg.
After much back and forth, along with a couple close calls keeping everything hot, the drumstick was puntied onto the bone and popped into the annealer.
We killed another beer and went down the street to Lowlands; where I had a feeling Luke would be bartending. Sure enough, I heard my name called out as we walked in. After a brief introduction, words flowed as freely as they did quickly, and two hours disappeared into thin air.
It wasn’t supposed to be a late night, even though it already was.
A mile and a half, and 6 neighborhoods later, the car came to a stop. We got out, walked for half a block, and stepped inside. She called the elevator and as the doors opened I glanced to make sure my settings were right.
I hope some of these actually end up in focus.
We half-ran down the hallway to her door, the shutter chirping along with each step.
She slid her key into the door and we disappeared into thin air.
Christopher Lange. 