Nick's Beer Garden, 1:30 A.M. Snow is falling gently on the concrete, a jazz band is playing in front of the french windows. A mass of sweaty hipsters awkwardly dance, the drawstrings from their American Apparel hoodies gyrating wildly.
Mr. Business: Hey Stark! Come and dance seductively, make this chick over here jealous so she'll talk to me
Me: Done and done!
[Mr. B dips me, my braids grazing the disgusting, disgusting floor. Ugh. So gross.]
Mr. B: Ok, I think it worked, I'm gonna go talk to her
Me: Go! Spread your wings and fly!
[Mr. B, suave as always, engages the girl in conversation. Everyone is all giggles and smiles. Mission accomplished.]
-------> Fast forward 2 hours
Me: Mr B., where is your lovely lady?
Mr. B: She was married. SHE WAS FUCKING MARRIED. Worst. Wingwoman. Evar.
fin.
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