He leans back in the booth across from me, folds his hands on the table in front of him, and quirks his brow.
Weeelllll, he drawls in a smirkingly mock-stern tone, What do you have to say for yourself?
I lean forward and use my lips, awkward-fish style, to find the straw that will allow me to sip my lunch. Having successfully coated my throat with the sweet liquid, I adopt as authoritative voice as I can muster, and answer his challenge.
Clearly and concisely.
I. Have. Cleavage.
The waiter who overheard this exchange managed not to dump a plate of curry all over his patron’s lap.
But just barely.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is what happens when Feve drinks.
Sometimes, alcohol IS genius. Cheers!
*clink*
Oh the exploits buzzy Feve and buzzy Fatal could have.
😉
xoxo
I sort of need a keeper when I get tipsy. Shortly after my liquid lunch, I was slurring words via text whilst wandering through a bookstore.
Me: I lost Zmotcb.
BF: You… Lost… Smotch?
Turns out he was not lost; only temporarily misplaced. 😉
*
We’d have fun, buzzy one. Guaranteed. 😀
Now I wonder what you would be like after *two* mai tais. 😉
Um, I would be… Asleep. 😉