He says his name is Nigel. It’s like I have a homing device for British men. I’m squirming, but he’s too drunk to notice. He has a martini in one hand, a stain on the shirt under his suit jacket, and I’m looking at chandeliers, padded lounges, and girls resembling porn stars. Anything so I don’t have to look at him.
His fingers curl around my arm, and he draws me in.
“Tell me a secret,” He slurs, “anything”
I’m three long islands in and his whiskey breath is fogging up my hipster glasses. Chewing on my lower lip, I give up, and leaning inward until my lips are just about to brush the collar of his jacket, I tilt my head back and whisper,
“You have terrible breath”
Ah, the single life.