“I have a job,” I said.
“That’s okay, you have a really worthy job.”
“Fine. I work with the police sometimes.”
“Well, we can see how you’d have to.”
“Okay … I have a mortgage.”
Gasps of horror. I sat back with my pint, satisfied.
After the pub shut, the others rummaged through bags left outside a charity shop while #192 pushed me against the wall and made out with me. I was a bit startled.
Then one night last year I went to QueerMutiny with #196 and got drunk, as is my wont. I mingled, danced with people, ate a cupcake somebody had found in a skip, and at the end of the night I offered to help clear up, but I was too hammered so my contribution basically consisted of holding something for a minute. I made out with #192, I guess, and took her home to crash at my place, on account of her living in a tree. We got off but it’s blurry, and she was pretty rough, and, okay, usually if it’s rough then I’m the one who’s making it so. I’m okay with switching sometimes, but this was kind of too rough. Ow.
I lost my earring in the process, and the next day Alice greeted me with “OMG, what happened to your neck?” Although you’d think she would know by now.