I’ve had many brief conversations with my mailman, but the last one was too long and towards the end he said, “We should get a drink sometime,” and because I wanted to still receive my mail and not to be rude I said, “Sure that sounds like a good idea.” He ruined my life by saying, “Great, I’ll pick you up at 8.” And with a big smile on his face he laughed, “Don’t worry, I know where you live.”

“So how many dogs have you been bitten by?” I asked. Then I yawned.

He looked at me while squeezing his lime into the gin and tonic and said, “A better question would have been: How many dogs have been bitten by me?” He took a sip.

I wondered if this was a date or whether I was about to be a serial killers first victim. I hoped it was the latter and excused myself to the restroom hoping to find a suicide bomber who was having second thoughts so I could convince him to go through with it.