Sitting on a swiveling stool at the catered bar, you cast one last longing look at your old high school sweetheart — arm in arm with her new, extremely overdressed, obscenely rich, and much older husband. You toss back the stiff drink in your hand and belch a little too loudly. I should have never bothered showing up for this moronic twenty-year reunion, you think to yourself. Casually wiping your mouth on the cuff of your expensive pressed white dress shirt, you get up off the stool and stumble slightly, quickly bracing yourself against the bar. Maybe no one noticed. The bartender raises an eyebrow at you, likely wondering if he should have cut you off several drinks ago.
You make your way towards the dancefloor, looking around for a potential target. There are a lot of women here, and considering they way they're looking at you, most of them don't want to be seen dancing with the likes of you. You put on your best smile, trying to mask your dentures as much as possible, and saunter up to the nearest woman. She's a tall redhead, with a long, horsey-looking face, and a dress several sizes too tight for someone her age to be wearing. She's alone and you don't see a wedding ring: a good sign.
You walk towards her. Time for a good opening line. In fact, it'll be the first you've used since your messy divorce three months ago, so make it count.