Thanksgiving eve

Last night I met up with a friend for a drink. Both of us felt weary from the work week.

“The night before Thanksgiving is the biggest drinking night of the year,” he told me.

“Makes sense,” I said.

We sat at a very dark bar, in contented silence, and stared at the people around us until they looked back, at which point I pretended to look elsewhere.

We talked about a friend, twice-removed: a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. Like us, she worked as a lawyer. Unlike us, she was fat and in a deep fat funk. You could see it on her face and on her body. We wanted good things for her. We hoped that she would turn her life around.

“My friend thinks that she’ll end up regretting her early thirties if she doesn’t do something about it,” he said.

“Probably.”

“I think I regret some things,” he said. “Small things that seem insignificant in the bigger picture. Overall, though, I don’t regret anything.”

“I think I regret some small things, too,” I said. “Like studying too hard and not studying hard enough. Mmmm. Taking life too seriously. Not traveling more. Things like that.”

“Yeah.”

“I always thought I’d end up in a different country for a bit, living an exciting life and traveling everywhere… but that was always a temporary idea.”

“Yeah, I wish I traveled more, too.”

“Overall, though, I’m really happy with the way my life turned out,” I said. “I mean, is turning out.”

“Me, too.”