It was a cute little cottage-like house, in a neighborhood but on a nice sized lot so as not to be disturbed by neighbors. "Make yourself comfy there ...n the couch. I'll get us some plates and stuff. What are you drinking? And don't say WATER!" she said rather emphatically. "Um, you have beer?" I asked."Good answer! Beer it is!" she replied.She returned with plates, flatware, and two beers already opened. "Cheers!" she said as we clinked bottles. We never really watched what was on TV. We sat. Rocco was one of the Union guys who I’d caught admiring my short skirt and flimsy tight blouse during the afternoon. I’d met him a few times over the years, mainly exchanging pleasantries and sorting out drinks and admin when he met with Chris. In his mid-fifties, he’d been the Union President for three years now. In terms of height, he was the shortest of the guys in the Union team, but he was a bear of a man who had a natural authority to him. A family name that spoke of Italian heritage, he. More

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