Finally, I zeroed in on two people at the bar. The woman, in her 30s, was hammered and leaning close to him; the man of similar age seemed, by my estimation, to be less into it, but too polite to put the kibosh on the conversation.
I sauntered over, pretending to be uber-confident, and tapped the woman on the shoulder.
“I don’t think he’s interested.”
The man just stared at me. Closer up, I saw he was just as drunk, but simply less animated.
“I don’t think--”
(I felt my friends staring and laughing behind me like I was the newest episode of The Bachelor.)
“He’s my husband,” she said.
The Gentleman Calls It a Day
As great as that interaction went, I was very relieved when the week ended. I found out just how strongly men aren’t socialized to be on the receiving end of social graces from strangers -- offering them is a slight to their virility, or something. And also, paying for shit sucks.