I can still remember the moment he walked into the room.
True to my winter promise to myself, I wasn't out carousing that night. In fact, I was essentially out in pajamas. Diarrhea Planet t-shirt, the ripped jeans I reserve only for horrible dates, my weirdest hipster glasses, and cowboy boots (for some odd reason). It was the Monday before Christmas.
I was out for a casual drink with my main squeeze. Nobody was around. We wanted to enjoy the bar without the scene that night. As usual, I didn't wash my hair.
But then there he was. She stopped, mid-sentence, interrupted herself to tell me, "Oh, so pretty."
I looked up and a gorgeous man was staring at me.
He maintained eye contact until he went downstairs with his friends.
I excused myself, distracted. "I'm going to go get another drink."
I spot the group of boys downstairs immediately. I saunter to the bar, order a club soda, with lime. (This is my drink, in-between drinking.)
And immediately neg him.
"What is this dude bus doing out tonight?" (There was no one else in the bar, because Christmas.)
Beautiful people aren't used to being mildly insulted by strangers. But I carry on until I trip.
"I mean, I didn't really need a drink. This is a water. I like your haircut."
He raised an eyebrow, but continued to talk to me until the bar closed anyway.
That night he drove me home, whizzing through every light. That should have been my first warning.
Fast forward to riding in a cab after Saturday day-drinking in full-dress lederhosen. He tells me about his Valentine's Day, how he took his date to the opera. He tells me about his favorite opera, the entire storyline. It is a heartbreaking love story, translated in Italian through the eyes of a German.
Instead of swooning, I interrupt, "Wait. Remember this moment. This is your story. This is your line! This is what you should tell women to make them fall in love with you."
He laughs, shakes his head. Pays for the cab, and immediately proceeds into a post-day-drinking nap.
The next time we hang out, we had half a bottle of whisky before the night even began. Sloshy, emboldened, and wild, we hit the town, hitting every bar on the way to a final, unknown destination.
I accept and imbibe a series of whisky, bourbon, and gin beverages at each pit stop. As we catch up with his roommates, everything is spinning: my head, my stomach, his smile.
In between trips to the bar, he taps his cheek, asking for a kiss. I laugh and oblige on each occasion.
This continues until we both trip. "I'm really tired." "Yeah, me too. Let's go home."
Exhausted, we wait for a lull and quietly exit, leaving his friends at the bar. He hails a cab.
After an uneventful ride, he taps his phone on the payment thingy. Near field communication, he explains, Google Wallet.
Well, it doesn't work, and the cab driver quickly gets irate.
"Do you want to see how to get away with not paying for a cab?" he slurs in my ear.
I offer to pay, quickly sobering up, not interested in getting arrested away from home. Not interested in getting arrested ever, really.
He steps out of the car. The driver gets out of the car. I get out of the car and stand on the opposite street corner, biting my lip, alternating with being slack-jawed at the unlikelihood of the entire situation.
I manage to capture a SnapChat of the moment, send it to my Single Person Spirit Guide as proof.
The whisky nearly erased the incident from my mind, until SPSG™ asked about it, the week after, upon my glorious return home.
We didn't pay for that cab that night--the cabbie started to swear. They started to scuffle, but there was really no question who would win. A beautiful victory for a beautiful man. I didn't say a word during the entire incident.
I went home soon after, glad I wasn't too ashamed to tell the tale.
"You GUYS! He beat up a cab driver."