You'll get together with the guys.
Pizza, hot wings, and Sam Adams.
Gathered around the television.
An uproar of noise at the buzzer.
And I'll promise you.
Not to interrupt with stupid sports questions.
Or call you into the kitchen because I don't have your full attention.
Scrunch my nose at the lingering scent of cigar smoke.
An icy stare and slammed door to the bedroom.
I'll leave you be.
Just in case you need anything...
I'll be in the kitchen.
Hanging with the girls.
Drinking and snacking and laughing and gabbing.
Enter at your own risk.