Last night was dinner with Chris' high school friend at the chili place I frequented during my last week of pregnancy when I was trying to hurry out lazy Gideon (didn't work).

The friend's name is also Chris (of course).

I had the Cincinnati-style chili, the girlie choice -- ground cinnamon instead of a lot of grease.

Anyhow, the restaurant was loud and this Chris speaks softly (compared to my Chris who speaks loudly, but too quickly, best described as verbally smudgy, it's maddening but I persevere).

I missed big chunks of sentences in the conversation and when this Chris spoke explicitly about picking up street prostitutes I was beside myself.

The explanation is this Chris is a police officier in North Carolina, and occasionally works with vice. Although he usually does SWAT work and I initially didn't get the "for work" context of his comments.

See, I came to the table expecting dinner-time tales of shooting people. . .

and this is America, where shooting someone is less shocking than blowing someone.

He did mention "no-tell motels" which always interests me. I told him about my No Tell Motel and gave him my card.