Happy Hours

All the signs advertise outside of bars in Paris. A slightly inaccurate appropriation of the idiom, but a charmingly literal appellation of the time people released from another day of the grind release themselves. Borrowed by a foreign mouth, the concept comes out 'Appy 'Ours. The French formulation implies ownership but is generous in its plurality. Last "s" leaks out the inclination to take their leisure leisurely. Didn't hang around happy hour often in Paris but caught the tail of an American version. Left lab less late than usual Thursday and snaked my way through the Bronx before the sunset I saw over rooftops and in reflections other days this week. Took the two train and met a friend and her co-workers on the west side. Walked in past a sign reading "Margarita Happy Hour" and smiled. A bar/Mexican restaurant, but didn't remind me much of Mama's. No high-schoolers in sight. Although they're out of season it didn't seem that crowd's kind of joint. Dimly lit, no purple orchids, but talkative parties around tall tables and wide glasses. Found friend with a bubbling group in the front. One woman wore a wide sombrero. They'd been there two hours, translates as three Margaritas. Sounds of Spanish mixed with English and I suddenly felt like speaking nothing but French. Oddly at ease, sat down and settled into some language's time zone of happiness.