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Really, Ian was a bit of a whore. There was the wife, the second wife, the graduate student, and the field-assistant. Also the third-wave feminist that he only saw at conferences anymore, and really, you would think she'd know better. Bruce had never been that kind of guy, himself; he was more given to watching others than to being the center of attention.
But Ian was also a great guy to share to share a beer with. The stories he knew...
"And then, I heard, the students got Childe a stuffed koala. Not a toy. Like, an actual koala. But dead. And stuffed." Ian took a drink. "Get it? 'Cause he's from Australia."
"How long was that before he killed himself?"
Ian raised one eyebrow. "You," he said, pointing with his glass at Bruce, "are depressing."
Bruce thought about protesting, but couldn't come up with anything believable. "You're the one who insisted we sit inside and drink. That's a bit morbid."
"It's the SAAs. What else is there to do but drink?"
"We're in Puerto Rico this year, Ian."
Ian considered this, then shrugged. "I'm not putting on a bathing suit. Anyway, it's your turn. Come up with a story I haven't heard, or you buy the next round."
"Have you heard the story about the time that Binford used a classroom to butcher a dead deer he'd found somewhere with lithics?"
"Yes. Everyone's heard that story."
"Okay. Did you know," Bruce considered for a moment. "Did you know Kathleen Kenyon drank gin in the trenches at Jericho?"
Ian blinked, surprised. "Alright, you win. I was sure I'd have you this year."
Bruce shrugged. "Of course. Do you know how much I've been studying us?"
"Bit creepy, really."
"If you want to see it that way." Bruce took a sip. "Now, let me tell you about the time Agatha Christie was digging in Iraq..."