A hand on my shoulder. "Just have fun and order anything you want, ok?"

Comfy swivel chair always swivelled towards mine. I swivel away, finding the prospect of our knees touching rather unfanthomable (and uncomfortable). I wonder why the light burn of my "Sex on the Alps" seemed to spread no further than my nose and tongue. Maybe that was why it seemed so weird when conversation started welcoming the f-word. Mine just didn't seem to come out sounding right.

"This is a Singtel telecom announcement service. The number you have dialled is not available. Please, try again later, f-cker!"

/She could feel her face begin to heat up-from the alcohol or her inability to deliver the f-word with the ease of her companions, or the embarassment of not being as hot as the girl diagonally opposite her...she couldn't quite tell. Although, one glass was quite definitely not going to cut it, if he was trying to get her drunk (he wasn't). And she could still walk a straight line-they made her prove it, before they let her leave, hurriedly, to catch the fastest bus home to her unsuspecting parents.

He let the candle light flicker on her face for quite a while before he gave up.

"I can't tell. I'm colour blind." His straight face as he delivered the line, returning the glass of oil and light to the centre of the table, cracked her up. It was the conversation, like this, that made drinking worth it. Even though it didn't taste so good (you played a game of Russian Roulette, picking cocktails over straights) and was hideously overpriced as compared to her favourite chocolate- or coffee-based ice blends. But he was paying, with money drawn from the automated teller machine next to the 7-Eleven across the street.

"What are you having?" "Sex on the alps." Giggles all around the table at its implications.

/Our fingers touched as he handed me the crumpled notes for my journey home.

"Just have fun and order anything you want, ok?"

Ok. Ok.