Your two friends have since disappeared with her two friends. You ask her what she’s studying, only to find out it’s some vague communications degree and her real plan is to be an Instagram model.
She tells you she has 2,894 followers as of that morning (not that she’s counting), which you help her boost to 3K that night by taking pictures of her dancing on the bar.
You tell her all about your job using big words because you feel like you’re dating your teacher, and she tells you all about her divorce, her kids, and how this is a “new phase of her life.” By her third martini, you think she’s both suffering a mid-life crisis and intriguing, so you pay the bill and know that, against all better judgment, you’ll be texting her again.
Your inevitable breakup: Her hotness aside, you’re broaching 30 and can’t rage like her.
Plus, you miss your solid Friday night routine of pizza, beer, and Neighborhood: Downtown Miami You're at brunch with your girls at Seaspice, when Rick and company casually pull up on a yacht.
He looks like his picture and is tall, which are plusses.
He tells you he’s dropped out of MDC because the traffic from Kendall sucked, but it's OK, because he "knows a guy" and is going to be a cop soon.