By the time he had stumbled around to her side of the table and wrapped a tattooed arm around her, the whole second floor of post-midnight Starbucks patrons were bent inward with all ears tuned to their thin romantic whispers. She patted his military haircut as he slurred perfunctory questions and tried to keep his impatient, inebriated focus from drifting downward to a well-constructed chest. It all ended at 2:54 with the crowd in hysterics during her indignant stomping out following his brief bewilderment, then horrified but sober epiphany. “What? You’re a man?”
This is a true occurrence observed in Tokyo circa 2000.