It’s just past midnight and I’ve just gotten home from a Frightened Rabbit concert at the Double Door. This is remarkable since my rate of concert-going is only slightly higher than my rate of Ouzo-drinking, which is to say, just frequent enough to remind me why I don’t do it. I’m an old man; the effect that standing for hours in a crowded, obscenely loud club has on me is, sadly, hilariously, to put me to sleep. But this band earned points due to the singer’s lovely Scottish brogue, and I had a free night, and Sarah needed some time alone to practice her Karting.
Before I left, considering this was to be my first visit to a club in a while, I thought it’d be best to lay out some ground rules.
Me: “I think it’d be best to lay out some ground rules. How many strange women am I allowed to flirt with?”
Sarah: (Thinking) “Two.”
Me: “And how many can I make out with?”
Me: “Wha-?! Can I have that in writing?”
Me: “Can you call Scott and repeat it to him?”
Sarah: “No way. And if you claim I said it, I’ll deny everything.”
Me: (Eyes narrowed, looking deep into Sarah’s) “... I don’t think you were being serious.”
Sarah: “Well done. Have a good time!”
Not that she has anything to worry about. Sarah knows there’s only one kind of person who’d allow me to flirt with her — a special blend of suburban-Jewish-storyteller’s daughter-teacher girl — and I’m quite pleased with the one I’ve got.