He pulled nervously on the collar of his white button down shirt that he looked very out of place in and cleared his throat.

“You know what I hate?” he began, “Eighties music, I just can’t bloody stand it! Any time I hear Peter Gabriel I just want to blow chunks. Alright, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t hate all eighties music, just the popular stuff. Give me a little Husker Du, I’m good. But none of that other shit…”

He paused for a moment. People in the audience murmered comments, a few that Margot caught, such as “What’s this guy’s deal?” or “Where’s that dancer?” Margot glared at them, and sat on the edge of her seat waiting for the man’s next move.

He shook his floppy brown hair out of his eyes and let out a deep cry from within and jumped up and down and let out a very passionate cover of The Pixies “Where is My Mind?”

And at that very moment, perhaps guided by the scotch in her system, Margot fell in love.