He Says His Name is Nigel

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.

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