She shuffled over to me across the dancefloor. She was approaching 50, short with a cropped “I want to speak to your manager” hair cut. She looked older than she was. Her clothes hung loose where they should have been tight and tight where they should have been loose. The music was loud and distinctively undistinctive. The room was large and sparsely populated.
-“C'mere to me. Are they your friends?”
After I nodded to confirm, she continued her inquiry over the music.
-“Are those two friends of yours autistic?”
I glanced at my companions dancing like their lives depended on it. Their sexual exploits for the night certainly did. I took a second to consider my response while taking a sip of my water.
-“Possibly, I'm dyslexic if that helps.”
She looked at me as if I had placed a fresh shit in her hands.
-“You're a smart one you are.”
She too took a glance at the dancers.
-“What's his story? That one there.”
She motioned her chubby arm in Adam's direction and pointed with a pudgy finger.
-“He's playing hard to get”
Was the response I gave her. It wasn't entirely a lie. He was indeed playing hard to get, just not with her. She looked bemused, like coming out tonight wasn't a massive mistake and that there was a life after divorce, just like TV had told her.
-“Yeah? Well tell him I'm playing hard to get.”
With that she marched off in the opposite direction, waddling down the hall, smiling at her faux triumph.