"I dunno. Whatchu feel like doin?" she responded for the same reason.
We both knew what was in store for us: Girls' night out.
With wine and nice dinner on the mind, we wove our way through the lightening-lit streets of Pondi to Satsanga, a charming French/Italian/Chinese/Indian restaurant that plays host to so many of my fondest memories. We entered, late, to find only three other active tables: 1) a local sat drinking in a dimly lit corner; 2) two foreigners shouted at each other over half-full beers; and 3) an American or French boy eating alone and engaging the entire waitstaff with his tales. We chose a spot far away from them all.
But we were bound not to be alone. Before we finished dinner, the drunk India had relocated to the table beside us--despite all the other empty tables filling the star-lit space of Satsanga. Engrossed as Monica and I were in each other's conversation, we couldn't ignore the weight of his stare and the burden of his eyes. Then he started talking to us. Or, at least, he tried. In a drunk and thick accent, we made out simple questions which we answered with short, curt replies. He kept pressing. I snapped. We moved tables.
Of course, we then found ourselves near the two foreigners speaking loudly in a language we hadn't previously paid attention to. Turns out they too were drunk and wouldn't stop talking to us. I am not a patient person and entered bitch mode, causing Monica to laugh even more over quickly disappearing wine.
They improved though, mostly because they were Russian circus workers in Pondi for the Gemini Circus. Before long they ordered us dessert; cute. Then they ordered us more wine; ok. Then they ordered more dessert, more wine, and paid the bill. "Monica," I said as they sought to order more, "it's really time to go."
Meanwhile, the lone boy with the charming smile who made friends with the waiters kept making eyes at us too. But, to my surprise, he simply left... after speaking loudly to the waiter about how he'd return tomorrow. Between the Indian's stares and the Russians' progressive drunkenness, the lone departing Westerner seemed like the most decent person there. So as we left, I slipped his waiter my card and instructions to deliver both to the boy the following day.
The note read:
Thanks for being the only guy not blatantly hitting on us tonight. Call for a chai some time."
On the ride home, I found myself laughing as we dodged potholes and mud puddles created from freshly fallen rain. Men always whine that "nice guys finish last." But that's not true. It's just nice guys leave quietly without giving an opening for good things to happen, and the assholes don't shut up, thus giving them more opportunities to lure even the most skeptical bitch out of hiding.
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