The World is Full of Horrid Men

The Friday night date was disappointing. I was late, as Mirabelle had covered me in red scratches, so it took a long time choosing the right outfit. (Suffocatingly hot night, every inch of skin covered.) Even so the first thing Glenn did was ask me if I’d been in a fight with Amy Winehouse, and then laugh for far too long. He looked OK: thin, long dark hair, rock-star face, but smelled as if he’d been embalmed in whiskey - and was wearing a T-shirt with ‘Cognac, Ergo Sum’ on it.
It was a barbecue on J’s balcony, with charred prawns. We had some bubbles, and Glenn got easier to talk to but some things worried me about him. He wept about how great the prawns were, he had this very weathered skin - and when you got close, actual dirt on his neck, and I couldn’t help wondering how unemployed he was and whether he lived in a flat – or just on a park bench somewhere. He kept saying he wanted to walk me home, but as he was slurring and stumbling around like a zombie by then I’m afraid I tottered off. Where have all the good men gone?