In the college bar, she perches on the arm of a sofa, higher than the four squashed on the three-seater but at the same height as the five others sat on low bar stools. Half the group is known, half new but banter is still easy.
The new good-looking boy, with thick, dark hair and a broad smile turns to her, mischief in his blue eyes.
“Do you want to be my next ex-girlfriend?”
The worse pickup line ever, but also the best because it’s the first one she’s thrown and whenever she recalls it afterwards it makes her smile.