I now had empirical evidence that I could project significantly on the pleasure scale. Was I like some bad drug, ruining good men? I was growing disgusted with my own self-pity. Fortunately, a distraction immediately appeared. He walked past me with a swagger, a bottle in each hand, and in his eye a twinkle that wouldn’t understand the concept of rejection if it was explained to him in nine languages and fourteen dialects. Then he paused and turned back. “I’m off to hear the bands. Would you like to come, my lovely?”
