It happened every Friday night without fail: Sal on his couch decompressing after another brutal week at work. There’d be greasy pizza, Pinot and something trashy on the TV.
And then she’d appear…
“Alone again?” Nana frowned, hovering over his ottoman.
“Go out, meet someone nice,” she insisted. “It’s the weekend for Christ sakes.”
With a heavy sigh, Sal reached for his jacket and shoes.
“C’mon hurry, they pack up at ten!” she then badgered.
Bingo night at their local church. Hardly ideal but better than being at home with the ghost of his long dead and eternally disappointed grandmother.
The Weekday One Hundred 