Me: 39, obviously not in the right bar. Her: 25, obviously not caring her date feels he is obviously not in the right bar. We share the dance floor with girls who think Halloween is a chance to dress like a slut and a guy get up like Ralph Cramden ready to hit the links. Then the Crown Royal starts to settle in. Bass guitar must be obeyed. Blinking lights blessedly hide half of my awkward gyrations. And she's digging me. She laughs. She touches. She dances away, then dances back. We didn't dress up for the holiday; Halloween is not big in her country, yes? Okay-la. But as the sweat makes my button-up shirt stick to my back and my legs beg for another drink, I stay on the dance floor, untroubled by my gracelessness. It's then I realize I am indeed in costume.
I am Bullworth.
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