- all our friends are drunk
Kit had lost her wingman. Well, not wingman, per say, that was a phrase for boys, where one tried to help the other get laid. There wasn't a word for that for the girl equivalent, which was to prevent boys you didn't like the look of from chatting you up, or worse. But Kit had lost hers. No, lost implies being unable to find the person, Kit could find her friend, certainly. She was just busy with the kid in the hat over there. Kit wasn't sure if her friend was toying with him or actually serious, and didn't care. Kit was sure that her friend was drunk, and if fedora-boy did anything untoward, Kit should punch him. But he wasn't, and they both looked fine, and now there was someone asking her something. "What was that?"
The asker smiled. "Would you care to dance?" He was tall, broad-shouldered, in a collared shirt-sweater-tie combo that bespoke money.
Kit was sure he'd never been told no in his life. So she took it upon herself to pop that cherry of his. "Sorry, sweetie, not interested."
"Ah. Sorry to have troubled you." And he turned and walked away. Kit stared. Well, getting this second view, she was almost sorry to have turned him down. Maybe she should...
No, no, better check on her friend instead.
