The Dive

Nestled off the Pike up the road from a prestigious prep school and down the road from a swanky mall sits a tavern Drake and I call the Dive. We've met at taverns, bars, and restaurants all along the Pike, but nowhere beats the Dive with $7.50 pitchers of beer and tiny booths designed long before the obesity epidemic hit the US. The Dive is small, doesn't offer food, has a large pool table that takes up 1/4 of the interior, and has a blaring jukebox that is rarely quiet. There are no waitresses in skimpy shorts and the smell of cigarette smoke still permeates the joint. Rumor has it that the Dive has been on the Pike for at least 100 years.

The bartender, who seems to spend half of his time either feeding the jukebox or throwing bottles into the recycling bin with a crash, is an intimidating figure. The type of dude who takes shit from no one.

Drake and I sit, our knees pressed together, in one of the few empty booths in the joint. We talk about life, our children, our spouses, our never-ending quest for another couple to have a foursome with. At times we hold hands across the narrow divide between us. Other times, we simply stare into each other's eyes, mildly amused at how hot we make each other and the knowledge that nothing will happen until our next meeting on Friday.

After 1.5-2 hours in the Dive (which never seems to get crowded), we walk out to the parking lot, prepared to return to our respective homes and lives. He always walks me to my SUV, pressing me up against the door and giving me a passionate kiss goodbye.

I don't mind driving to the Dive. It takes about 15 minutes on the expressway and another 15 minutes on surface streets. The drive home is another story, though. Driving in rush hour traffic, I'm faced with a 50-minute drive. It's all good, though. Seeing Drake is the highlight of my day.