The pretty boy in the blue striped t-shirt had a delicate tattoo of a knife on his arm that was erotically threatening. But he called himself Queenie, and could not sing, and murdered Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso on karaoke. He wished me Happy Birthday, and I told him that my birthday was in April and that he had a terrible  memory. But at least I am pretty, he said, and asked if I liked his singing. I looked into his olive eyes and told him that he was perfect but didn’t need to sing to impress.