You wouldn’t pick you to represent anything other than sarcasm, maybe. You don’t like blanket terms or sweeping generalisations about who people are and choices they make at weekends. You like picnic blankets and sweeping motions and the men doing them, whether that’s shining shoes or pushing laptops off desks to throw you on to them. You like anything that might happen in a Reese Witherspoon movie although you’ll always be the sidekick asking inappropriate questions. At some points offensive is comic.
You don’t have fake ID, only need it at opportune moments, and generally, when you couldn’t care about being sent home by blancmange-eyed bouncers, they don’t ask you for it. You’ve spent nights in places that would shock older women alive. You’d rather be home than necking men to whom you’re backup.
He might notice. Buying coffee’s a good way to imply like, and so is faking interest in music you have no idea about. When I was trying the same thing in the nineties we didn’t have Google, the resources you have, so if you fail, it’s a lack of research, only lazy trying.
And if he doesn’t, you have mementoes, saved up shoe box remnants of almosts and nearlys, and how much do you care anyway? How many men should you really know before you’re gone? How many’s an adequate number?