While in Manhattan for my birthday a friend met up with us for drinks and karaoke. As we walked with him to the bar Live Longer followed through with our plan to get an answer to an important question. She took his left hand and, in her best ‘nail lady’ voice, pointed to his ring finger and asked, “You have girlfriend? You married?” “No,” he replied. “What these marks?” she asked pointing to three small scabs on his hand. “They’re just sores,” he replied. Test one – passed.
A few days later he joined us again. Unfortunately, Live Longer wasn’t feeling well so he and I hit the town for a few hours on our own. After enjoying an aperitif, he made a suggestion, “Let’s get a couples massage.” I thought this sounded good and we began the process of looking for a massage parlor that catered to couples. I sent Live Longer a text, updating her of our activities. “You’re going to get a happy ending!” she replied.
Sadly, we were unsuccessful in getting a couples massage and, as often happens, the time came for us to go our separate ways. So, on the corner of 30th and Park Avenue, we gazed into each other’s eyes, he raised his arm, made a fist and extended it for a fist bump. “A fist bump? Are you seriously going to fist bump me? No way,” I told him. He seriously did fistbump me and, surprisingly, I had a happy ending without a happy ending.