I drank with a Vigil yesterday. We were taught to play pool by a drunk guy named Joe. At first the Vigil was not too keen on the lesson, but I said “It’s all right. I’m sure Joe’s very nice. Anyway, he’s drunk.” Joe’s face fell. “Not drunk,” I said, “no. That was a joke.” He looked at me suspiciously in case I was going to make any more bad jokes, then turned his attention to the game.
“There’s no shame in being taught things,” Joe confided to me while the Vigil shot, his breath baited with beer to lure me in. “I race moro–I race motorcycles, and I wouldn’t be able to do that if someone hadn’t taught me.”
“You’d be dead!” I agreed brightly. He looked around for a second, alarmed, as if a motorcycle was going to come revving through the door to get him, and then he glared at me. “Or not,” I hastily amended.
“Right. Right. Right. Not,” he said. “You know, for a girl, you’re not very funny.”
“I–yes. That’s true,” I agreed, and then I kept quiet and watched the game.
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