I asked the bartender for the bill and took out my credit card. "Oh, don't worry about it. It's on me," she said. I was flabbergasted. Just because the kitchen was closed when I walked in, she was gonna give me a free drink?
"But I have no cash," I said, "and I'd like to give you a tip."
"It's no prob," she smiled. "Just come back again." Wow. Now that was a small act of kindness. So it's official: There is a wine bar I actually like.
When I got home, there was Dickie in his jammies, watching season six of Buffy and eating Chex Mix. "I found a place to stay," he said. "They say I can stay with them till the end of the week!"
"Yay!" I said, somewhat shocked at how easy it had been for him to find another place to crash and, if that was the case, wondering why we hadn't kicked him out earlier.
"I just love it when Willow goes bad," he said, as he watched her flay the dude who killed her girlfriend between two trees.
There was something very likable about ol' Dickie, sort of a spunky down-and-outedness, if there is such a thing ... very Dickensian. I might even miss him. A little.
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