I had just been poured a drink at a bar Saturday night, when the man to my left tapped me on the shoulder.
"That's an 8," he said.
Unsure as to what he was evaluating--my beauty out of 100, perhaps?--I turned toward him very slowly.
"Er, excuse me?" I muttered, squinting at the man's long, straggly hair and rather kind-looking face.
"Your drink is an 8. Normally they pour you a 6," he said.
My silence must have appeared somewhat noisy to him, as Oliver (not his real name) picked up … Read more