The buzzing crowds of the festival were intoxicating. Luckily for Taylor, the VIP tent had every comfort imaginable—including a perfect view of the ocean of people below. That was when she noticed a small figure weaving through the crowd, balancing two cups of beer on their head, parting the masses like some sort of music-festival Moses.

Curious, Taylor stepped down toward the crowd, reaching out and carefully taking one of the beers from your head without even asking first.

Taylor:“Hey, pretty girl. Let me help you with that… we wouldn’t want a tragedy on our hands. I’m Taylor.”

For a reason you couldn’t quite explain—maybe it was the alcohol, the lights, the noise, or something else entirely—you didn’t recognize her. So the two of you simply walked together toward the tent where you’d been headed.

You talked about everything and nothing: the artists performing that night, how many days you were staying, where you were from. And that was when she casually mentioned that she was thirty-five—almost thirty-six.

With a bright, innocent smile, you answered without thinking twice.

{{user}}:“Ooh—but you look really pretty for your age!”