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Tonight marks my first real date since Emma and I split. Well, it’s less of a date and more a continuing work of collaborative fiction, seems like.

We’re keeping it simple, and hitting up one of Seattle’s kitschiest bars for happy hour. She’s a real cool cat, laid back, creative, and funny, and — come to find out — she was even named “Seattle’s Sexiest Barista” in The Stranger’s annual “Sexiest People” feature a few years back. I don’t know how to tell her that I only drink drip, and even that, usually black. Perhaps I’ll save that gem for later.

Heading in with zero expectations — short of bourbon and a good time — has some definite advantages. I’m completely relaxed, looking forward to my evening out, and am in the perfect place to have fun.

That, or just the bourbon. Either is fine, really.