“Which one do you like?” We huddled around the bar in a conspicuous grouping, eyeing every muscle-bound hunk in the pub.
Rita jutted her head towards a man standing by the foosball table. “Isn’t he just the cutest?”
I craned my head around Daphne’s permed bob. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s just so…” I eyed his buckteeth; his wide set eyes, his enormous ears.
“Girl, that boy fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down,” said Daphne.
“He looks like Steve Buscemi,” I agreed.
Rita sighed, lovelorn. “I know.”
He caught us looking at him and walked over. “Buy you ladies a drink?”
Rita giggled and sidled up to him. “Of course.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, once we were out of earshot.
“I wish I did,” Daphne admitted. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have to buy my own drinks.”