The Stevie Nicks Pervert is standing in a bar. It is not an easy situation. He has just dropped his phone into the toilet. He has just spent five minutes scrolling through the sent items on a urinal cake.
The Stevie Nicks Pervert is lucky. There is only one girl in the world who would find a man scrolling through the sent items on a urinal cake appealing, and she's sitting four feet away.
She wants to explain.
Growing up in Finland, this girl owned a cow. It was her best friend. She looked into its warm, exhausted eyes each morning, and learned everything she'd ever learn about living.
She wanted to teach it tricks in return. She struggled, mainly; had one success. It was masterful at sitting, just never to order, and was too hard and huge to beg, but it wasn't long before it was the only jumping cow in the village.
'Up, girl', she'd shout, leading it at a trot to a hay bale, and it would leap as if it belonged up there, its proud udders flapping like the flag of some new Balkan state.
One morning it jumped without being asked.
She sat in the grass and watched it. She could tell by the way that its eyes glowed as it got going, that she'd taught it something she hadn't meant to. She wasn't surprised when it took the fence and kept running, just confused. She never understood why it didn't come back.
She is staring at a man with a melting urinal cake in his hands and feeling as if she's swallowed a trout made of sherbet. Her friends are all laughing. She decides not to mention to them that he reminds her of a cow that ran away from her; that she hasn't loved anything at all since she last saw eyes as exhausted as these.
He is looking at her now.
There is a small, dark women staring at him so hard that he thinks he should apologise. He recognises this look, understands what it means.
He staggers towards her. She smiles, and makes herself look like a mattress; like a tall glass of water. It is a skill she has; she never has to think about it.