-Hi, baby, you good.
-Yes, thank you. It wasn’t a question.
I meant you look good. Yes, I know, thanks. Did you know you’re
the prettiest woman in the bar? -I’m sorry. Will you take long?
-For what? -To say your shitty line.
-What shitty line? I hate assholes
who approach me with shitty lines. Now you’ll ask me
if I come here often, if I’m alone
and you’ll offer me a drink. -The drink is a good idea…
-Let’s do something. It’s better if I ask
what you’re drinking. Well, it’s a mojito. Of course!
Something sweet, like you. Let me show you
what real men drink. Give me two mezcal.
Straight. -One for me and one for my friend…
-Rafa. But mezcal makes me really… Of course. I hate guys who say shitty lines
and drink sweet drinks. What is this? A bracelet? No, it’s a bangle.
My father gave one to all his sons. -What kind of men do you like?
-I like rough men. Men who play soccer
in the street, who can change tires, who have fucked up hands
for fighting with other men. I’m talking to you,
but I won’t do the trombone. Trombone? Blowing behind
and pulling the front. Oh, no. I don’t like that. So manly! -Do you use conditioner?
-No. -Do you wax?
-No! Do you fart? Once I farted
in front of a cousin… You’re not for me! This bar is full
of little boys like you, with your angel-like hair
and your cheese pie face. Why don’t you go with them
and leave me here to see if a real man comes? Let me guess. You’re… a Libra. Fuck off! A mango margarita, please. A cold beer. What are you looking at? Piss off.