There is a British girl who I keep running into (Lonely Planet = seeing the same people again and again and again). She’s very cute but I concluded early on that she is not serious about sex; she never has more than one drink, she always goes home early, she has low social intelligence, and she only leaves her hand on my crotch for two seconds.
I went to a disappointing ladies night at Cafe Eucalyptus last Wednesday night in Cuenca and of course she was there, with her two latest suitors. Salsa music was playing and one of the suitors, a 21-year-old German bearded fellow, asked her to dance. Denied. He was persistent and immediately tried once more. Denied again.
He then stands in the corner, alone, dancing with his arms out holding an imaginary partner, practicing his moves. Then he starts stretching his back, swinging left and right to get each vertebrae. It was hard to watch.
For one hour he analyzes, stews, and deconstructs about giving it one final attempt. Even though most guys would have gotten the hint a long time ago, you can see on his face he has come up with a blockbuster that is sure to work.
He comes up to her, grabs her hand, and says, “I just want to try something!” :laugh:
She shrieks “No!” then turns to me and says, “He’s creeping me out!” Denied three times.
It gets worse. You see, earlier in the night the German was getting on my case for being “quiet,” that something is “wrong.” I just didn’t want to talk to him. But because he annoyed me I decided to finish him off. He was a horse who broke his leg on the race track, and a ruthless killer was needed—one without mercy.
“You should give him a chance,” I told the British girl, like he’s a charity case in need of a lucky break.
“Well good job, you ruined his night,” I added, like his happiness is something she owns.
Go to sleep young man, it’s time for bed.