It’s Irby’s 7th on the 7th—
     lucky numbers lining up
     like a playlist shuffled just right,

     anniversary rhythms syncing with touchdown heartbeats.

Two more sleeps (or one-and-a-half, considering last night’s insomnia special)
    and I’ll trade counting sheep

    for counting minutes until you appear, stage left.

Irby’s humming,
       familiar faces waiting,
       Doug probably wearing something outrageous,
       Tim handling the chaos with military precision,

       Mel orchestrating behind those studious glasses—

Griff, booming voice narrating Premier League highlights like it’s gospel.

Overtime, giving the play-by-play like a soundtrack on repeat.

But you—

You’re the guest star,
       the surprise track dropped
       exactly when I need it,

       the featured artist who steals the show without even trying.

We’ll toast seven years
      of a place that feels like home,
            wrapped up in one evening
               of Mari-infused smiles,
                        easy laughter,
          and the song your eyes sing—

                 all chorus, no verse…

  when you finally spot me at the bar.

Happy Irbyversary, indeed—

But really?

I’m just here for the feature.