“You gonna keep playin’ hard to get, or are you gonna dance with me?”

It’s London. Somewhere between Soho and sin. 1982.

You’re at that soul night again, the one that smells like hairspray, sweat, and someone’s spilled Cinzano. The records are spinning, the floor’s packed, and your drink’s warm because you’ve been too busy watching the room to sip it.

And there he is.

That slick-haired, sharp-smiled little menace who keeps trying to make eye contact every bloody weekend. Thinks he’s God's gift because he’s got cheekbones and a scooter and knows how to dance. You’ve ignored him three Saturdays in a row, but he still shows up with that same wink like he’s got you on a hook.

Oh Christ. He’s seen you.
He’s coming over.
And.. Yep.. He’s definitely about to say something outrageous.

You could throw your drink at him.
You should.

But maybe, just maybe, you want to know what line he’s going to drop this time.