‘I like you,’ she slurred, punching me a little too hard on the arm. We were both pretty drunk.
‘That’s nice,’ I told her while surreptitiously rubbing the sore spot.
‘D’ya know why I like you?’ she asked.
‘Eh, no,’ I confessed, though I suspected the alcohol might have been a contributing factor.
‘Because you don’t have a beard,’ she explained, nodding her head vigorously.
‘I see,’ I lied.
‘A man with a beard,’ she told me, ‘has something to hide. Never trust a man with a beard!’
‘They’re all scum,’ she declared.
‘Your ex-husband…’ I suggested. I had a fuzzy recollection of her possibly mentioning an ugly divorce earlier in the night.
‘That piece of…’ she spat. Literally. She spat on the floor of the bar and it really wasn’t that sort of place. A couple of bouncers quickly appeared and escorted us outside to a rather chilly evening.
I managed to stop her from trying to kick her way back in and led her to a nearby taxi rank. I persuaded her into the back on an empty cab, with a thankfully beardless driver. I slammed the door and walked home rubbing my chin.