Fortunate enough to be in attendance at a grand opening (or re-opening) event of a classic arcade, so when the announcement was made for a Street Fighter competition, I rushed to make it to the machine to beat the crowd. The custom console had four sets of six-button controls and one of them was unoccupied, but I wasn’t up to putting my skills to the test on this live-streamed event. Shortly thereafter—so short that the game was over and I was almost immediately outside, looking at the place from a distance leaning against a railing with my companions, a fair significant other and our cheery but comparatively frumpy friend. A life-sized fighter jet painted Black and Navy was parked in front, but it was a light-weight plastic model, which stretched and bounced on an exaggerated number of wheels exposed when flipped over. My girlfriend was unhappy with disparaging remarks I had made about our third wheel, hand-written on pre-printed forms, including one about his appearance, specifically his choice of clothing in sweats. So much that it dawned on me I had lost her to him, and my mind wandered to the availability of another Filipina (?) of her caliber.
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