In the back of the club, on a bench built for two, a short college guy with a baby face is putting the moves on a miniskirted beauty whose shapely legs, crossed just so, rival Katie Couric’s. The only thing between him and his destiny is her girlfriend, squished between the two of them, large lips in a pout.
Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” is blasting from the speakers at U Street’s Republic Gardens, rented out for an end-of-school-year bash. There’s not much dancing going on, but lots of drinking and flirting among what appear to be mostly students from George Washington University.
The young suitor is neatly dressed all in black, his long-sleeved shirt tucked into pressed cotton trousers. In this casual crowd of colorful polo shirts and frayed jeans, he might as well be wearing a sign that says, “Trying too hard.” As he presses his end of the conversation, the beauty nods slightly but her eyes roam the room. He ignores her friend, whose pout grows ever more pronounced. If anyone ever needed a wingman, this guy is it.