Persistence works.... sometimes

My friend A. is a universally acknowledged picture-perfect person. One of these days I want to see her scruffy. You know, as in 'I've-done-nothing-to-my-hair-and-skin-so-I-look-awful' as opposed to her current 'I've-done-nothing-to-my-hair-and-skin-but-I-look-so-beautiful' state. In the six years I've known her this hasn't happened yet. Still, one can always hope.

We went out to a birthday party in a club on Friday. A. turned up straight from work at 10pm with not a hair out of place and wearing a fantastic skirt and top with her smile, and promptly made that girl sashaying around in a tight mini skirt and red lipstick look cheap, while the other girls in Wan Chai fashion (tight jeans, random jewellery, tank top) appeared unsophisticated. She also made me feel like an out-of-place teenager/college dropout with my embroidered jeans and scruffy top (thank God I didn't wear my trainers).

Naturally, the evening turned into a replay of 'Beauty and the Beast' - she, the belle of the ball, me, the Beast, protecting her against unwanted suitors. At least three Marks were off the mark and two Mikes had no say in the matter. But we had not thought of a plan to thwart the French.

Ah yes, it's always the French. Ever since the 100 Year War. The Field of Gold didn't change anything. That's why we have films like French Kiss, Slap Her She's French and the like (it wouldn't sound the same if it was English Kiss, Slap Her She's German). As was proven by Mr. Quite-Handsome-Frenchman who decided he really, really liked A. He did everything - danced with her cheek-to-cheek during a 50 cent remix, looked into her eyes romantically and so forth. At each new transgression, A. turned to me with a shocked, beseeching look. I was enjoying it a bit too much to care.
"Is she your friend?" this guy I was talking to about Canada (guess where he was from) asked when he saw A. waving her hand to me and glaring as she was whirled around by Mr. Q.H.Frenchman.
"Yes. She's asking me to help her. But I can't - I'm not the sort of person who ruins someone else's plans to get laid," I said. Mr. Canada nodded sagely. When A. was twirled around the second time, she tried to catch my hand, but Mr. Canada fended her arm off.
"I like to help my friends," he said to me as A. was carried off to another corner of the dancefloor. We both watched as she struggled against him.

Later on, A. and I found two barstools and a drink.
"You didn't help me!" A. shouted.
"It was too much fun. Besides, you like the guy."
"I do not!" A. yelled, "he's way too passionate!"
Since when was that a turn-off? Q.H. Frenchman had his way, not-quite.
"I want to go home wiz you," he purred away at her ear. He'd found us. I consulted my watch (I wasn't wearing one) while he did a Hollywood - swooped her around and kissed her like that scene from Gone with the Wind.

Despite all her protests, A. gave him her number. Ha! I might have guessed. No woman would allow someone she doesn't find attractive to kiss her. I would have punched him to the floor (although according to my kickboxing instructor who was also at the bar, I'm a better dancer than a boxer).