I’m at the bar with my friend Raz drinking tequila. It’s been an age.

“It’s not just Margaret who wanted me to get one,” I tell him, “I wanted me to get one.”

He looks at my groin, shakes his head.

“She’s controlling you, man.” He clears his throat and looks across at a hottie in a boob-tube over by the jukebox.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Zen the fuck out, Charlie boy.”

Raz wiggles his forefinger at my groin, then saunters over to the jukebox.

While he’s gone, I scoop an ice cube between finger and thumb and outline a heart on my cheekbone, wonder how many times Margaret has checked her app so far tonight.

“How do you take that thing off then?’” Raz burps, back on his solitary stool, tapping the counter for another round. “She got a key or something?”

“Touch ID.”

“Christ.”

The bar door flies open and a brunette in boots walks in, the kind you want to nibble and graze on and devour. The kind that makes you feel manly and so very boy. Lights up every sense.

“So what actually happens when… you know?” asks Raz.