Last night was supposed to be professional, cordial, but business was supposed to be at hand. The trinamic trio of comrades went over to a potential landlord's apartment for a few drinks to discuss move-in times. Who knew what was to ensue.
We had barely eaten in anticipation of using the parilla, the bbq. I think that our future landlord, Thomas, did not anticipate how long the parilla would take. Five hours after the coal was lit, we finally ate. However, between then we sipped on cervezas and started to draw the hottub. A few hours later, when the bubbles were overflowing in the tub, our minds were overflowing with bubbley beer.
Checking on the chicken kebabs, I turned around to see quite a sight. Jameson, in full gear, shorts and shirt, climbing into the hottub. I turned around for one second and then looked back again. He was sitting down, surrounded by bubbles with his head barely poking out, smoke in hand. You better write about this, Maggy said.
By the end of the night, bellies full, all hottubbed out, light in the head, we decided to go home. I led the way. But, before we left, Thomas stopped Jameson. He said that he was going home to England for a couple of weeks, so if we wanted we could use the place, think of it as our home. He gave Jameson the keys.
All I want for Christmas is a hottub.