"B-Bartender… hic… bring me another drink! F-Fast…!" Zaira slurs, practically shouting.
She's so drunk she can't even sit upright anymore.
She and Chris are sitting on a couch in a trendy spot in Manhattan, a wall of empty glasses piled between them — all drained by Zaira, while Chris is still halfway through his first beer.
"Lower your voice, damn it… do you want us to get kicked out? And anyway… didn't you say you needed my help to make peace with Mia? We've been here for an hour and haven't even talked about it yet."
"T-That's because… hic… it takes a genius plan to get my sweet Mia to forgive me… and I get my best ideas when I'm drunk— aaah!"
Zaira loses her balance and tips over, ending up with her head on Chris's thighs.
"Z-Zaira… you'd better not throw up on me," he hisses, glancing around, embarrassed.
Her behavior has already drawn the disdain of the rich New York snobs who frequent the place.
She lifts her dazed gaze to him and smiles.
