A local pub in Boston, Philadelphia is featuring a date between a a man and a woman. The man is rapidly approaching his middle ages, attempting clutching onto the last of his youthful days with both hands. His suit's still crisp from the dry cleaning, with a couple of clean seams from where he ironed earlier that evening. Meanwhile, the girl still has much of her youth ahead, with her hair ablaze in waves of ember and the odor of cheap perfume and cigarettes. The place is still from the festivities of the evening passed; no one with places to be visits a bar at 4:30 on a Sunday.
The date's not exactly going well. He's coldly crossing his arms while maintaining a scrutinizing demeanor that demands interest. His eyes could gaze into your soul, they're so piercing, as if he's trying to analyze and judge the situation. She's sitting away from him, her eyes glazed over from disinterest. This is her third date this week, and this one's obviously the worst by far. I mean, look at him, he's looking at me like I'm a murder suspect, not a potential lover. At least the Thursday date got her a free steak dinner and a bottle of wine, this is only going to get her a couple of drinks. The aging man behind the counter asks if he can top her off, and she rejects it. Based on how this is going, she'd rather not drive home completely smashed.
He pays for the check, and he's clearly not interested it this girl either. Any girl that wears a party dress like that on a Sunday night isn't exactly his type. When she stood up, she looked like a deer that was learning how to walk. High heels and alcohol are not a good combination. He picks up their tab, and they both depart, leaving before the passerbys can judge their demeanors from the window.
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