I got there first, and slipped off to the bar to wait.
It is impossible to look sexy at these tables. My booty, legs, breasts and posture are consumed by an enormous chair and an even more enormous table that reaches the middle of my chest. I feel like a five-year-old. Nobody sees me crossing my legs, or my new heels that make me die from the love I have for them. I try to seductively prop my elbow on the table, but it only results in complete coverage of everything below my neck. The waiter asks me what I'd like to have, and I can't even flirt with him. I feel like he expects me to order an orange pop.
"Pint of Keiths, please."
And a high chair.
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