He stands firm, pulls me back, and says, “I don’t dance until I’ve had a minimum of two shots. Sorry, it’s a rule.” “Well, rules were meant to be broken.” But he shakes his head. So, I take a different approach and purr innocently, “You mean, you can’t wrap your arms around me”—I gently run my fingers down the sides of his arms—“put your body close to mine and sway slowly”—I smile, close my eyes, and sway slightly in front of him—“until you’ve had two shots?” “It’s not a slow song,” he says, but he is weakening; I can tell.
