I am continually astonished that anyone would try to pick me up in a bar. Last night four of us went out to hear a band, and I happened to wander out from where we were sitting. I had been standing by the dance floor watching the band (and the dancing-like-mad young women) for less than two minutes when a thirty-something guy in a white dress shirt and khakis comes over to me and says, “You look lonely.”
Or at least that’s what I heard. I was so surprised to be spoken to at all that I gave him a baffled look and the brilliant reply, “Huh?”
“You look lovely!” he repeated, sidling closer.
Oh! “I’m waiting for my friends to come over,” I said quickly, pointing frantically in their general direction, and feeling a moment of mingled shock and panic.
He beat a quick retreat, lifting his hands and saying, “Hey, I was just paying you a compliment!” before briskly walking off.
Good heavens. All these beautiful young women in designer clothes around and he goes for the forty-two year old in jeans and no make-up.
At least he didn’t tell me I was prettier than a beer truck.
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