Daisy takes the shot, licks her tequila-wet lips and says, “You’re eighty-nine, or maybe seventy-four.” “Nice try,” he says, pouring her another shot. “I’m thirty-two.” She gasps again. “I wasn’t right? I thought for sure you were a little blind in your right eye.” His lips downturn. “I’m nineteen,” Daisy retorts. “Nice try.”
AS SHE SHOULD.
