Happy Hour

I waded through the throng of yuppies gathering for their evening cocktails at Sophie's, already irritated.  How was I ever going to find a seat at the bar?   Louise knew I hated meeting her here after I’d finished playing receptionist for the day, but somehow I wound up in this yuppie hell at least two days a week.  Eight more weeks and I’ll be back in Madison, I reassured myself.  Then this crap summer would be just another memory.

As usual Sophie’s reeked of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.  The visuals weren’t much better: in December the management stuck a massive white Christmas tree decorated with ceramic doves in the corner, while the rest of the year it housed travelling art collections arranged in bizarre patterns across the wall.  The weirdness of the art only added to the suffocating “happy hour” atmosphere.   Happiness could not have seemed further away, as office workers flocked to meet their upper-level management soul mates and usually ended up sad drunks instead.   I qualified for neither of these groups, yet here I was.  Again.