The drunken cowboy and other tales
The fireplace in Blackwater Lodge is fronted by a small couch with a big squishy armchair on each side. After braving the snow, Raymond and I collapsed, he into one of the armchairs and I on the couch.
An hour later, a frat-boy type in his 30s plopped down in the other armchair, heaved a sigh and stared into the fire. And stared. And sighed, in the way people do when they really want you to talk to them.
The guy finally figured out that he'd have to start the conversation if he wanted one -- Raymond was reading and I was on my laptop -- so he did just that, in the way gregarious drunks do. Hooboy.
Then he hauled himself out of the chair, thunked uninvited onto the couch next to me, and started flirting. Poorly. (Dude was drunk.)
Five minutes later, it occurred to him that, wait, these two people might be a couple. Subtlely was clearly not his strong point, so he just asked. And didn't flirt after that. As much.
What he did do? Try to take off his shoes. And by shoes I mean cowboy boots. And by cowboy boots, I mean tight, expensive jobs that were too much for a drunk Maryland 'cowboy' to handle. Cue five incredibly awkward minutes of him flailing next to me with his boots, hinting broadly that he'd like a little help. From me. Ohgodkillmenow IamnottouchingYOURSHOESWTF.
After he finally yanked them off and set them aside, a middle-aged guy who was clearly a relative snuck up and stole them. Hee. The cowboy rambled happily and drunkenly on for another half hour about his job, politics, whatever crossed his mind, until the relative took pity on us and retrieved him.
I took great glee in pointing out that his boots were missing and watching the ensuing panicked search.