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You are sitting so close to her tonight, outside, waiting for your friends to pay for their drinks and come out. You’re both laughing like nostalgic old ladies about stuff that happened only hours ago, but these are the days of your life (Queen), right? You’re drunk. She’s drunk. Oh, and she’s so so so so pretty, but you would never tell her that because “she’s a model and she hears it all the time”.

I haven’t kissed a boy in so long, she says. Why can’t I make out with someone tonight?

Abruptly and awkwardly you kiss her right into her smile and maybe, sort of, that smile turns into a kiss for a bit then she pulls away, but not that far. You can’t even tell if you’re about to get the friends vibe or not. She laughs gracefully and says your name in between the ha has. You were the Fonze but now you’re Richie Cunningham so fast. Like the birds in Hitchcock, your friends descend upon you laughing and play-fighting and asking the eternal party refrain: “Where are we going now?” But you can’t hear a thing at all, like in the Daft Punk video with the Dog Boy when the sound gets muffled in the fridge.