Last night I met up with a girlfriend for happy hour and dinner. We were sitting at the bar, where two uber cool guys had struck up a conversation with us. All-in-all, it was good times: good food, good conversation, good drinks.
Anyway, as we were all sitting there--clearly interacting with each other--drunkie stobbles (a combination of stumbles and wobbles) over to us, situating himself directly behind my girlfriend and me. Drunkie, a middle-aged+ man, wearing a wedding ring and sporting a thinning comb over (on a completely unrelated note, guys, don't hang on to hair that is clearly not hanging on to you. Go bald. Women love baldness. Women laugh at combovers and hairlines that start in the middle of your cranium) looks at my girlfriend and me with all seriousness and says, "Can I ask you a question?"
At this point, I had two options: I could say yes or I could say no. No would have been the better answer, but yes would yield the best possibility for complete idiocy. So, I said yes.
"Has your belly button ever been kissed?" he slurs, eyes darting between my friend and me.
My friend, the smarter version, says, "no." She recognizes that humoring drunk-guy-in-bar is probably a bad idea.
I, the not-so-smart version, am delighted to humor drunk-guy-in-bar, because then I have stories like these to tell. So, I say, "I'll play along. Yes."
He pauses. His reddened eye begins to twinkle.
"From the inside?" he finishes, leaving us to ponder his sage follow-through.
Evelyn Parkside
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