A tall striking blonde in designer jeans and heels hailed me late in the afternoon on Cleveland Street. She stood under an umbrella in the poring rain looking directly at me, eyeballing me. Sure enough, she opened the front door and hopped in. Immediately the stale smell of alcohol permeated the cab.
‘Darlo Bar thanks’, she jauntily announced. ‘Are you on the grog ?’, I cheekily inquired. ‘Well yes, yes, I’m binge drinking !’, she exclaimed. ‘At your age’, I quipped, ‘your poor mother’. She looked across at me and asked, ‘Why, how old do you think I look ?’. Groan...
After ‘Why do you love me ?’, it's one of the dirtiest questions a woman can ask a man. Returning her gaze I sized her up for a moment. She looked pretty good actually yet given I’m hopeless at judging women’s ages, I figured she was anywhere from 30-50 years old. I was damned either way I guessed.
‘Aww...around 26..’, I lied. ‘Darling !’, she squealed, ‘I love you 'cause I’m 46...', and she lunged at me grabbing my arm, '...here, let me kiss you’. A short struggle ensued as I bravely resisted her puckering lips on my cheek. For it was just my luck she was a transsexual. How depressing.