Who Says Saturday Night Romance Is Dead?

Who Says Saturday Night Romance Is Dead???

Isn’t it funny how sensory perception becomes increasingly distorted in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed?….
Our first meeting was a romantic interlude consistent with a Bronte epic :
Eyes meeting across a candlelit room, his smouldering stare fixed on mine as he strode purposefully towards me. Him leaning suggestively across my shoulder and whispering in my ear, his foreign lilt causing my knees to tremble violently….
Of course, my morning-after postmortem painted a different scenario entirely. I observed the following discrepancies :
1. The smoking area in Trinity Rooms is dingy and dim. Many a Limerick child has been unwittingly conceived in its’ shadowy enclaves. It is, therefore, the complete antithesis of every romantic standard the Bronte sisters strived to set.
2. On closer inspection of my memory, the illusive flickering I believed to have been candlelight actually turned out to be an ashtray, ablaze in the reckless abandon of inebriation.
3. His smouldering stare was a misconception on my part of his watering, red rimmed eyes, the cause of which being the thick emissions from the afore mentioned ashtray.
4. It also occurred to me that in all probability, he was staring at me because if you don’t set and maintain a focal destination while under the influence, the result usually involves the world spinning and the legs buckling.
5. And, on that note, I duly substituted the words “stumbled aimlessly” for “strode purposefully”
6. “Leaning suggestively” was more difficult to decipher. It was a toss up between “leering shamelessly” and “swaying acutely”. I couldn’t make my mind up.
7. Judging by my partial deafness, I estimated his whispering to have been somewhere in the 50-60 decibel range.
8. Well duh. “his foreign lilt” was obviously a euphemism for “I can’t understand a word you’re saying you feckless eejit!”. He had to repeat himself more times than “Murder, She Wrote” before I copped on that he was asking me for a lighter.
Still, on reflection, I was flattered. After all, he could have chosen to light his cigarette on the candle flame. And, on further investigation, I was amazed to find that I had actually managed to save his number in my phone under the name “Jarski”. Which turns out to be the Polish word for “vegitarian”. Close enough, I suppose…...