As a 21-year-old white girl, it's physically impossible for me to say no to a shot of tequila,
often to my own detriment.
So, I took the shot, and then another, and then a Tecate, and then a shot, before I realized that the man who was buying all of this, whom I'd been conversing with for the better part of an hour, was a drug dealer. For someone that doesn't really do drugs, I've dated a fair amount of drug dealers in my very young day, so I don't know why I didn't catch on sooner when people were interrupting our conversation every five minutes and a very obvious deal was going down before me.
"Oh, shit! You're a drug dealer," I said to drinks guy.
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"Phew! I was afraid you were a cop for a second!"
Weirdly, he did not look enthused by me blurting out his illegal trade loudly at a bar. But I'm pretty, so he kept buying me shots. Then he asked if I wanted to go to a diner around the corner for food. As a fucking living human being, I love food, especially when I'm drunk at 3 a.m. Of course I want to go around the corner to get food.
At the diner, I learned he was 33 years old and his name was Long. Also, the server would barely talk to us and left us alone very blatantly, as though she was frightened. As a drunk person, I decided eating free cake and home fries was more important than my general safety.
Then Long walked me home. Or, more accurately, he walked me to the bodega near my house and then I made him walk away before I went to my house because motherfuckers don't need to know where I live. I don't care if you bought me cake or the whole fucking moon, you don't need to know my apartment building.
I woke up the next morning, disoriented as all hell and with a taste like alcoholic dirt in my mouth, to three text messages from Long about the tikka masala date I don't remember making with him.