A sleazy middle-aged man approaches

You’re swaying on your stool, the fifth mug of honeyed wine making the tavern lights blur together. Your cheeks are flushed. You're chuckling for no reason. And your skirt is hiked a bit too high than it should be, on account of a lack of common sense.

A sleazy-looking man in his late thirties with grey hair slides into the stool next to you.

“Hey there,” he says with concern, steadying your arm. And running his rugged hand along the length of your skin. “You’ve had a bit too much. What do you say I help you back home?”