Different Standards

“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.”


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