Riddle me this... who goes to a chic Tribeca banker bar, orders up a Laphroaig neat, and ends up getting picked up by a tea-drinking Muslim?
I do.
In his defense, he was pretty hot. But what's a foul-mouthed post-feminist workaholic woman supposed to do with a practicing Muslim who has never even tasted alcohol... much less the simple beauty that is an Islay scotch?
The answer: Screw.
Obviously, I passed. He has to at least pretend he's interested in my personality. And he sure as shit better know his scotch.
*scorpio*
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