As much silence as we could enjoy inside a restaurant that schleps 95 kinds of burgers, and sings "Signature" birthday songs in your face when you age.
It was bliss-ish.
We had ordered, chatted with our appropriately perky server, been carded-it was looking to be a good night.
There was a lull in the conversation, each of us enjoying our own grease-scented zen moment. Then the conversation started:
Sky King: :::whispering conspiratorially::: So. Do you think he actually killed someone?
Me: ...........................................ummmmm, who????
Sky King: Our server! (still whispering, in case the homicidal maniac bringing us our Rum Face Punchers goes psycho, apparently)
Me: :::pensively thinking. Looking confused. Time passes:::
Me: :::uproarious laughter::: Dude! That's a MOLE!!!!!!
Sky King: No way.
Me: Way. You need glasses.
:::Server walks by, balancing a tray full of mile high choco-cream-goo with 9 thirsty-Thursday Beer-o-ramas, smiling his winning, I-live-on-tips smile:::
Sky King: Holy shit, you're right. Wow.
Sky King had seen something in the corner of our server's eye. Apparently, it looked like a tear drop tattoo, indicating he had shanked someone in the joint. Instead, the server had a skin condition:
Indicators of horrifying violence
Facial anomaly. NOT teardrop tattoo. Really.
In other news, I will be collecting funds. First, for a Kevlar suit in case Sky King accuses more people of being thugs. Next, for Lasik.