He said a lot of things to me. I really couldn’t understand much of what was said because he had a habit of slurring his words whenever he became excited. It could have been the alcohol, but I like to give unnecessary credit to people. An entire litre of bad red wine sat between us. He was on his third glass before he began to speak. Naturally, he isn’t a loud person, but the wine had loosed up his vocal chords, and the entire room was in on our conversation. Well, it wasn’t much of a conversation because he was the only one speaking. I was too busy trying to decipher what had been carved into the wood table we were seated at by an entirely too busty waitress. Jane loves Chris, or is it Christy? I couldn’t be sure, because the person who did the carving obviously had bad penmanship. I glanced up at him every so often, because I didn’t want to be rude. The first time I looked up he was talking about a customer who sent him in pursuit of a floral dress for his wife, who unfortunately for both him, and the customer, wore a hefty size 20. Did I mention he worked in the women’s division in a department store? There can’t be anything more emasculating than that, or quite as gay except for working as a go-go dancer in a gay bar. I worked in the shoe department, but then again, I was a woman. I quickly got bored with the story. Overweight wives and rude customers have a way of driving one to tedium not amusement. I returned to my reading, however stilted and incoherent. Ellen loves Mickey, or is Mikey? I can’t be sure because I’ve had a glass of wine and the last thing I ate was half a salad 6 hours ago. When I looked up again, he was more animated. Now the amusement was kicking in. Drunken foolishness is always entertaining. His arms were flailing in the middle of his story about a wrestler who power bombed another wrestler on television last night. I moved the bottle of wine out of harms way. I was hoping nobody would think that we were together. We were together, but not together together. I leaned in and told him to keep it down, and he leaned in and tried to lick my face. The amusement faded. That was the exact moment he started to say a lot of things to me. Like I said, I couldn’t understand much, but I feared that if he didn’t shut up I’d have to maim him with my three inch heels. A girl doesn’t wear heels to maim, but will, if she finds no cooperation. He tells me he wants to sleep with me. Now that I catch, because, sadly enough I haven’t actually had sex for about a year. I consider the offer and then his forehead hits the table with a loud thump. Berating myself for a lack of sexual taste due to a severe lack in sexual activity I removed his wine glass from his fingers. Looking around the room I saw a few people snicker, others drunkenly gave me a thumbs up sign. I tried to shiver in distaste, but then remembered that I actually contemplated his proposal. My face curls up in disgust. I learned a lesson. Never go for happy hour drinks with a co-worker that is a potential after-hours drunk, and who obviously thinks you’re a good drunken lay. I’m glad I didn’t have to have to hurt him with my heels. They have to be returned to the display window tomorrow morning. It would have been pretty difficult to remove the heel from his inner thigh, and get the blood stains off before tomorrow. I went back to reading the unintelligible words on the table. Jason loves Michelle. This ones clear. Lucky Michelle.