"So, have you ever kissed a girl?"
What started as a quick drink after class has become notably less civilised since Playwright Tutor left.
There is something about the Oxbridge/ Girls School combo which means that this is not the first time I have been asked this question. The answer is no more interesting than before.
Irish Boy raises his eyebrows.
"You must have!"
Even through the slight haze of vodka it strikes me how young he looks. For a fleeting second I yearn for life to be - I search for the right word - that uncomplicated. Did I too once look that young?
I look directly into his eyes.
He holds the gaze trying to decipher if I am lying or not.
Meanwhile I remain safe, wrapped up in the blanket that is his inability to read me. It is a rush of power more potent than anything the bar can offer.
The look broken he bows his head, a concession.
He picks his pint back up. "Your parents clearly didn't pay enough for your education".
I cannot help it, I smile. And then ask him if he wants another drink.