The Super Bowl
*Simon*
Every year, my friends Lyssa and Jimmy host a Super Bowl party for a small group of friends. When I got there, they had set up their living room with a big screen TV, plenty of snacks and drinks, and a festive atmosphere. As the guests arrived, the energy was high, and everyone was looking forward to a fun night of cheering on their favorite teams, not to mention the commercials.
But, truth be told, the game was a bust: low-scoring and generally lame. Since it was a school night, people started drifting home after about the third quarter, but I kept guzzling Jimmy’s beers. By the two-minute warning, two things were clear: it was the least interesting Super Bowl in recent memory, and I was in no condition to drive home. Neither were my hosts. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal because my wife would handle the driving, but she was out of town.
After the game, we lounged on the sofa just bullshitting for a few minutes—they have a big L-shaped sectional, and I was on one end of the L and they were on the other. I got up, maybe a little unsteadily, intending to thank my hosts and just walk home. “Where are you going?” said Jimmy.