I'd had a Stella no more than twenty minutes before we got to the bar. I was halfway through my vodka tonic when (we'll call him Mr. Mustache) got up, sauntered all the way across the bar and brought me my second. I felt my eyebrows form a sort of half question mark across my face. It was met by the information that I am a slow drinker. Fair enough, but why hurry? We'll be here a while won't we?
The, er, gentleman sitting on a low couch across from me leans back, legs apart, and strokes his mustache, before shifting forward in his seat towards me. I was moving on to drink two and paused, swizzled the ice around with the straw 'till it formed a mini-maelstrom of carbonated vodka, waiting in the loaded moment for the impending words to fall out from under the 'stache.
"So, uh... how 'classy' are we gettin' tonight, mmm?"
Have you ever squirted vodka out of your nose? Neither have I, but I can imagine it would burn like hell. Luckily I'd waited to take that sip, or I'd be able to say exactly how vodka felt to the nasal cavities.
He followed his inquiry with- I kid you not- the double eyebrow shrug. That's both eyebrows- both eyebrows wiggled twice in rapid succession. Oh man. A single laugh forced itself out of my throat while my brain sinapses played tennis with words in some vain sporting attempt to form a response.
When I met him, admittedly in another bar, I'd been intrigued by the curled-up 'stache, the smooth dance moves and easy going conversation. The way he didn't seem to take himself too seriously. But now as my laugh was met by the question marks in two piercing, ice blue eyes, it struck me that it was I who didn't take him too seriously. But maybe he took himself more seriously than I'd assumed.
Laughter danced in my stomach like malicious moths fighting for freedom. I refused to free it for fear of offending.
I've since learned to be more offensive from time to time.