My friend and I yesterday went to a meet-up party in Retro Bar. I had decided that, with everything going on with Tom, I needed to get out and try to meet new people.

There I met a handsome blonde fellow.

Sitting next to me, we began chatting and flirting. Professional and with a geeky streak, we seeed to be hitting it off, and it wasn’t long before he has his leg next to mine.

Then his hand on my knee.

Then on my thigh.

Then we were outside, in each others arms. I leaned in to kiss him, and suddenly the passion stopped. His lips remained still and baron, even though I could feel them quivering with anticipation.

I pulled away and looked at him.

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” I asked. The reply, of course, was affirmative.

He apologised, profusely, calling himself all manner of names. Saying how sorry he was sorry for leading me on.

I told him it didn’t matter. It was a harmless pub flirtation, and meant nothing. It certainly wasn’t love at first sight, and anything that it had been had been killed stone dead by this point.

I was more annoyed that I’d spend a large part of my evening talking to him when I could’ve been meeting other, more interesting, people.

And it was the most feeble excuse for a kiss I’ve ever had.

Is there anything more inexcusable?


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