Ok, so now’s your big chance, big fella. Your date’s gone to the ladies room, so now you can stare at me openly, without trying to pretend you’re just looking around for your waiter so you can pay your bill.
As soon as I entered the restaurant, you stopped listening to her and turned your attention toward me, you sly fox you. You gave me the once-over at least three times as I was led to my table, and your girlfriend was clearly oblivious to your distraction because she was still happily chirping away and laughing.
As I approached your table on my way to the ladies room, you revealed the depth of your suave and oh so discreet sophistication. You stopped slouching, nodded your head ever so slightly toward me in acknowledgment of the secret bond we shared, and displayed the broadest of smiles just as I passed. You laughed heartily. You were a regular bon vivant.
But now that your adoring date is in the ladies room, you’re smiling broadly at me. Staring boldly. You even sort of winked.
I would go into the ladies room and tell the girl who’s reapplying the lipstick that makes her lips the most kissable, who’s bending over to rearrange her tits in her bra to make sure her cleavage is droolable, who’s about to go into a stall and insert a diaphragm — but who am I to interfere?
You fucking schnook.