That’s what we were talking about, sitting at the bar, sipping our beer, Ben, my suitor of the moment, and me. But, as conversations often do, it veered unexpectedly.
The bartender was the catalyst. Of course, he was tattooed. Aren’t they all? Our waitresses, waiters, bartenders, don’t they all sport permanent body art?
This bartender’s right arm was branded with a single word spreading down its length. Surrounding it in random patterns were cross hatches, as if he were keeping score; sets of four vertical parallel lines,
each set with one diagonal line crossing over it.
Sleep. That must have been what we were talking about. I can’t think what else would have gotten this particular group of women talking about this particular topic.
I was meeting with six colleagues, all women, ages 35 to 65, all professionals. Our leader was late, so we chatted idly in the way that co-workers who aren’t close will chat. One of them, I don’t remember which one, asked the question.
“What do you wear to bed at night?”