“Why is it, do you think, that someone decided all the best-tasting cocktails on a menu were girl-drinks? What even makes a drink a girl-drink or a guy-drink? It’s a drink.”

When movies and TV shows told me to brace myself for guys to ask me a flirty question at the bar, this wasn’t exactly what I expected. Although, that might be because those bars are usually at an exclusive club or obscenely expensive restaurant. Maybe when you’re standing at a bar inside a quirky bowling alley where the balls are neon, the tables are decorated with newspaper clippings of various dogs, and the signature drink is served in a soup bowl, you have to expect things to veer off the beaten track. Pickup lines and all.

“Sexism, I guess?” I say with a shrug.

“Well, yeah, that’s a given. But you know it wasn’t a girl who made that rule, so, why’d guys screw ourselves over like this? Guys can drink coffee without weird looks, but I bet you anything that if I brought an espresso martini back to my table I’d get endless shit from my friends. Endless,” he repeats emphatically, slamming his fist on the bar. The bartender shoots him an annoyed glance, and he removes his hand abruptly.

A group of guys being dicks to one another about stupid shit is not exactly surprising. But I am a little lost as to why he’s randomly decided to share this fact with me. “Who cares if you do? Is your masculinity that fragile?”

There’s that dazzling grin again. “I know how bad this is gonna make me sound, but, yes. It is, unfortunately, and I’m working on that, but today isn’t that day.”

And, finally, it clicks. “Well, as it happens, I’m here with a whole table of girls who would be delighted for you to join them to drink an espresso martini in peace. No judgment included.”

“Now that,” the guy says, “is an interesting proposition.”

He says it like I’ve come up with some sort of genius idea out of the blue, and he totally, definitely didn’t bring this up to try to steer us toward him buying me a drink. Seems like a shit-ton of trouble to go to when I would’ve said yes if he’d just, you know, asked me if I wanted a drink, but here we are. Talk about taking the scenic route. “Okay, how about this,” he goes on. “I get an espresso martini, and whatever you’d like to drink as a thank-you for your kind offer, then you introduce me to your table of nonjudgmental friends?”

I pretend to think about it while the bartender wraps up serving the other customer. Then, finally, I nod. “Sure, I’m down. Make it an espresso martini and a pink passion crush. Thanks.”