That curl. That damn curl. Guys as pretty as this were not supposed to be trusted: they were (in Samson's experience) usually trash that stomped on your heart as soon as they got the chance. But Samson had a few to drink, which always drowned out his natural sense of distrust.
He leaned in towards the man. "Same," he said. "See, about every two weeks, when I've had a day where nothing goes my way... I get orders returned, my landlord comes around to complain and nobody pretty to look at visits my store and then I bash my big toe. Well, at the end of one of these days, I get the restless urge to drink. To dance. And to do whatever else strikes my fancy."
He grinned crookedly. "I'm Samson. What's your name, then?"