At a favorite brewery, I am trying to avoid eye-contact with an odd looking gentleman at the far corner of the bar. When he had first entered the establishment, I’d actually been somewhat intrigued. He was good looking, tall, and with just the right amount of facial scruff. Now, after being stared down for the last hour, interest has all but turned into plain discomfort.
Finally approaching, he extends his drink, offering me his straw. “Do you want to have try?” He delivers in broken English, and I quickly deduce the cause of this strange approach, stemming from the fact that “scoring poon” has apparently yet to find its place amongst ESL curriculum.
So, I respond with my signature brand of wry wit, “Are you trying to rufie me?”
The Frenchman looks at me, thoroughly perplexed, as my friend explains why an American woman might so casually reference the “date rape drug” on an otherwise social “lady’s night” in warm July.
Allowing my mind to wander, I suddenly picture myself in kindergarten sitting next to my first crush, and struggling to open my snack milk. Taking it out of my tiny dimpled hands, he’d showed me to how to fold back the flaps, peel away the cardboard, and squeeze until open.
I’m sure I thanked him, blushing, and much too shy to even consider flirtatiously asking whether I should worry about coming-to post naptime, sore and disoriented. Now, back in the bar, my heart aches for those days so long ago when such an act of simple kindness actually had anything to do with those two words. In fact, when Frenchie asks if he can walk us home, and I glance to my friend, it’s her facial expression that says it all.
We’re probably better off on our own.
