Propositioning Pollyanna

Arsenal were all over West Brom -- the better football team (or, if you like, ‘soccer team,’ as those strange people in the States call it) by a country mile. If it had been done on points, like boxing, it would’ve been Arsenal three hundred million, West Brom nil. And then, West Brom went with a sudden breakaway, and the referee was blowing his whistle to give them a goal. A goal! With their number ten half a mile off-side! There was a concerted groan from all of us in the Black Griffin, overlaid by one voice’s indignant cry.

“Don’t be ridiculous, ref -- how was he not interfering with play? He was standing directly in front of the goalie!”

I twisted ‘round to look for the source of the voice. Sexual equality be buggered, it wasn’t often I met a girl who knew her Arsene from her Wenger. (Results, obviously. Arsene when we were winning, Wenger when things weren’t so good.) Though to be fair, blokes who do are quite thin on the ground, too. They always think they know it all, but start going into the details of the fifty match unbeaten run a few years back and they start to mumble and shuffle off. So, in the circs, it wasn’t exactly surprising that I immediately started looking about for this fount of football knowledge. Didn’t take long to spot her, if you’ll excuse the understatement of the year. She was a couple of tables behind me, and she was wearing a very long, bright pink (and I mean bright pink) satin skirt, a sparkly purple top, and earrings about the size of her head, which, by the way, was covered in long, curly blonde hair. Bloody hell, I hadn’t expected to find a footballing brain in the shape of Barbie. I looked again and clocked the wheelchair. Weirder and weirder. Barbie goes to hospital.

The half time whistle blew, and shrugging, I decided to give Barbie the benefit of the doubt. There was a stampede for the bar, more reminiscent of one of those TV animal shows -- you know, when everything heads for the watering hole. Which, to be fair, was a pretty accurate description of what was going on. As I made my way in the same general direction, I stopped by Barbie’s table. The guy she’d been sitting with -- presumably her boyfriend -- had joined the rush (auditioning for a part as elephant number five?), so she was alone for a second.

“Hey. Fellow Arsenal fan?”

She smiled up at me, a little sheepishly. She had the sort of smile you usually only see on models and dolls, too. “Just a bit. Does it show? Matt’s been teasing me about my habit of yelling at the television -- usually I watch matches at home, where it doesn’t matter how loudly I complain. I kind of forgot I was in public. Polly, by the way.”

Polly? Short for Pollyanna? Next, she was going to start telling me to look on the bright side, it had been near the end of the first half that Albion had scored, rather than just before the end of the match. She was probably in the wheelchair thanks to saving a friend from a terrible accident.

“Leigh,” I said.

“I said to Matt,” (did she have to keep bringing the boyfriend into the conversation? Not that I was intending to date Pollyanna, but it would’ve been nice to feel I had a chance) “that Fabregas would just have to score a hat-trick in the second half. Don’t you think he’s been playing an awful lot better this season? The captaincy’s done him so much good.”

Geez, I hadn’t been too far wrong with the Pollyanna nickname. “Mind if I sit down a mo?” I asked, gesturing at the boyfriend’s chair.

“Be my guest. Mind if I don’t stand up?” she said laughingly, gesturing at her own.

“Temporary or permanent? The wheelchair situation, I mean,” I asked, before I could stop myself. Tact never was my strong point.

“Oh, permanent,” she said decisively. “You don’t think I’d have a chair as nice as this if it was just a temporary thing? Do you know how much the damn things cost?” She stopped, and looked over at me ruefully. “Well, I expect you don’t. Sorry. I’ll save the rant for another day.”

“Serves me right for asking a stupid question. I guess you get that a lot?”

“Not at all.” Polly smiled. “Most people don’t like to mention it: the chair’s like the elephant in the room -- except a lot more useful.” I grinned, and didn’t tell her I’d been comparing the boyfriend to an elephant not that much time ago. “It’s easier to get through the door, fortunately, too. Want a drink?”

“Yeah, I was just going to the bar.” I half-stood.

“Matt’s already there. What are you drinking?”

“Half of Heinekken, if poss.”

“Lightweight,” she teased. Then she raised her voice. She had proved nicely earlier that she could manage quite a bellow when she wanted. “Matt! Half of Heinekken as well, okay?” The boyfriend, still a way away from getting served (the elephants had beaten him to it, which figured), gave her the thumbs up, and she turned back to me. “What do you think of the match so far, then? Other than the goal, that is. Not,” she added, apparently unable to stop herself, “that it was a goal.”

“Oh, how unfair was that?” I agreed. “I was with you all the way. Wasn’t it Bill Shankley who said ‘if he’s not interfering with play, what’s he doing on the pitch?’ Seriously, though, we ought to be stuffing this lot. It’s not like they’re Barcelona or something, they’re the Boing Boing Baggies.”

“I always think,” Polly said regretfully, “that they ought to play in pink and white stripes.”

I gave her a bit of a look. I’d thought she was sound on football, but if she was going to sit around commenting on the strips and no doubt having a list of her top ten best looking footballers, I was out of here. She was probably only watching because the boyfriend liked it. “Yeah?”

“It always makes me think of Bagpuss. A bouncing Bagpuss, of course.”

Okay, this was getting surreal. A Barbie girl in a wheelchair who knew her football and thought West Brom were like a kids’ TV character. Mind you, it was quite an image. I had a feeling that whenever I saw the Baggies in action in the future, I would have the bouncing Bagpuss in my mind.

“Thanks for that,” I said dryly. “By the way, does your boyfriend mind being ordered to get people drinks like that?”

“Who?” Polly looked confused. “What, do you mean Matt? He’s my brother -- younger brother, so I’ve been ordering him about since the day he was born,” she said with a grin.

“Not your boyfriend?” Stupid question, when I thought about it, but it was out by then.

“Definitely not. Why, are you interested?”

“No other boyfriend?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“No boyfriend,” she confirmed.

“Straight, though?” She shook her head. “Gay?”

Polly shook her head again, mischievously. “Bi.” She must have seen the withdrawal in my expression, because she continued, “No, not bi-curious. Bi. I go for guys or girls.” She paused. “Um, but not my brother. I don’t do incest.”

I laughed. She sat there, looking so demure, and then came out with lines like that. I was beginning to like Pollyanna. And, actually, to notice that she had a bloody gorgeous figure. It was difficult to gauge her height when she was sitting down, but the purple top did nothing to conceal the absolutely stunning breasts she had. And I was certain it was natural, not ‘assisted,’ if you get me. She really did have tits to bury your face into. Which, of course, I was not going to do in the middle of a pub, tempted or not. Well, probably I wasn’t...

I got another glimpse into her strange world when Matt came back carrying a pint and a half of lager and a glass of lemonade. He dumped them in the middle of the table.

“Ta,” I said, reaching out for the half.

“Thanks,” said Polly.

Okay, I admit it. I’d assumed (yeah, yeah, ass of u and me, I know) that she’d be the lemonade and he’d be the pint. I should’ve had her measure by now, ‘cause of course she took up the pint glass. Matt picked up the final drink and leaned against the wall with his lemonade in hand.

“Oh, God, sorry,” I said, belatedly realizing I’d nicked his seat, and getting up hastily. “And how much do I owe you for the half?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said cheerfully. “And don’t go away. Polly has been berating me for my lack of interest in the beautiful game -- if you can swap tips of ‘a hundred and one things you didn’t know about Arsenal’ you’ll be doing me a favor. Poll, mind if I go and talk to Lily? She’s about as thrilled by the whole thing as I am, but Rick will insist on trying to educate her, and the poor girl doesn’t know how to say she doesn’t give a toss. Of course,” he added provocatively, “she’s only a girl after all.”

“Be gone!” Polly said dramatically, flinging an arm out and nearly taking her pint out with it. “Oops. Yes, be gone and never darken these doors, etcetera, etcetera, Matt. You’re a hopeless case, you know.”

“I know.” He gave her a grin, and I suddenly saw the similarity between the two of them. “Thankfully, so do you. For goodness sake, never date someone who isn’t as in love with Arsenal as you are. Lil’s had so many facts and figures poured into her that they’re coming out of her ears. And she never gets them the right way round, anyway -- do tell, Sis; was it Nicholas Anelka who was sold for the biggest profit by Wenger, or was it Fabregas?”

I winced.

“Cesc Fabregas’s been playing for us in this game, you idiot,” said Polly, and as Matt disappeared, she added, “He knows perfectly well, you know, but he can’t resist teasing.”

“More a case of ‘a hundred and one things you didn’t want to know about Arsenal’?”

“Well, he did offer to bring me,” Polly said. “Not that I need ‘bringing,’ obviously, though a bit of company is appreciated, even when it is my brother. But I think it’s more that he’s got a crush on Kate behind the bar, to be honest. Mind you, so have I.”

So had I, too. Kate was considerably more my style than Pollyanna -- big combat boots, dreadlocks, and a leaping dolphin tattoo had it every time over pretty, fluffy femmes. At least, they always had done in the past. Not that I was particularly butch myself. Sure, shortish hair and jeans, but that’s standard in most women these days. You start categorizing people as butch lesbos on the strength of that, the straight world would disintegrate.

“Yeah,” I said absently, wondering why I was more interested in looking at Polly than at Kate despite everything.

“Have I shocked you?” Polly asked, her gaze suddenly very direct on my face. “I’m in a wheelchair, so I shouldn’t have sexual fantasies?”

While I quite wanted to hear about the nature of her sexual fantasies about Kate (hey, we could compare notes, right?), there was one thing I needed to put straight first. “Hey, Pollyanna, I’m the girl who reckoned Matt was your boyfriend, remember? And, no, I didn’t anticipate it was limited to hand holding under the table.”

She laughed. “What did you just call me?”

Oh, shit. Fell into that one, then. “Um... Oops?”

She gave me a little poke. “Did Pollyanna drink pints?” she asked. “Now that’s something I didn’t see in the Disney version. You’ll be telling me she smoked pot and had it off with guys in the bushes next!”

She was outrageous. I liked it. “I wouldn’t shatter your illusions that much, Pollyanna. Though,” I added, unable to resist, “apparently she had fantasies about barmaids...”

Her smile was wicked. “Why, want to hear about them?”

“Wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” she said provocatively, “I could also tell you the ones I’m having about a dark-haired lass wearing an extremely nicely-fitting pair of black jeans.”

Our eyes met. I knew precisely what Polly was suggesting, and she knew I did. I felt the smile curve the corners of my lips.

“Be my guest.”

“Well,” she drawled, lowering her voice a little so that she didn’t broadcast to the entire pub, “let’s see.” She looked me up and down. “That hair cut -- you know, it just leaves bits of your neck visible. I think I might have a vampire complex, because I think I’d rather like to have my mouth by your neck -- kissing, certainly, but I’m thinking a bit of nibbling, and maybe even biting might go on.” She smiled sidelong at me. “Do you like being bitten, Leigh?”

“Depends who’s doing it,” I said, but the throbbing between my legs told me that I wouldn’t mind at all if Pollyanna went through with her suggestions. In fact, I suspected I’d do all I could to encourage her.

“You know,” Polly added, “it’s seeing the tail of Kate’s dolphin disappear behind the sleeve of her top that does it for me.” (Kate was wearing a short sleeved corset-like top, and looked hotter than hell, which made me wonder why it was Pollyanna whom I was longing to snog.) Polly looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you have any tatts, Leigh?”

As it happened, I did. But the star on my right shoulder was something I kept very private. It had a special meaning for me, my only memory of my family. My mother, telling me I was her star-in-the-night. My dad, one dark winter night, pointing out Orion to a fat-legged toddler who had grown into football-loving Leigh. Orion would’ve been tops at football. I know it.

“Just one,” I said, and had a weird vision of Polly slipping my top off my shoulder and pressing her mouth against the five pointed star. I’d never liked it when girlfriends of the past had done it, yet now -- suddenly -- I found I wanted to share it with Pollyanna. “Here,” I said, shrugging my top aside so that the star was visible.

Polly was silent. Absolutely silent. Then, very gently, she ran one finger along the points of the star.

“That’s different,” she murmured, and there was this strange note in her voice which shivered through me, somehow.

“Different?”

“Special,” she said. Then she gave me a flirty glance, deliberately changing the mood. “The football’s about to start again, and I think you’ve lost your original seat. Matt’ll want his back, but you know the thing about this wheelchair?” She looked expectantly at me, but I shook my head. “It’s quite amazing, you know,” she said softly, “but when it’s the right person, it’s just big enough for two.”

She looked delicate, Pollyanna, and I reckoned if I lumped my whole weight on her she’d break. But she read my mind. Putting one arm around my neck and pulling me towards her, she snogged me fair, full and firm. By the time she’d finished, I’d probably’ve done anything she asked. But what she asked wasn’t much.

“Try me,” she said, patting her lap invitingly.

I tried her. It worked. I might not have got my head buried in her breasts, but I sure as hell made sure my hands had a good old feel. And Polly didn’t complain -- anything but. Her head fell back and she practically purred with encouragement. If her brother hadn’t been somewhere around, I might’ve taken her there and then, but there’s something about an audience that isn’t my thing. Turned out we were copping more glances than the football, so we turned our attention back to that and waited for a more private moment.

Oh, and by the way? Arsenal won, 3:1. A hat-trick from Fabregas.

I’d never really anticipated dating someone in a wheelchair. It’s not that I’d written it off on a list of “NOs” -- no guys, no smokers, no wheelchairs -- just that, well, most of the people you meet in the world don’t come complete with their own set of personal wheels. And it takes some getting used to. I mean, when I leaned over to kiss someone, I wasn’t used to having the arm of a wheelchair poke me in the stomach. When Pollyanna and I walked down the street... well, ‘we’ didn’t walk, I did, and Polly wheeled herself beside me, about a yard beneath my eye level. We couldn’t hold hands, because Polly needed both hands to maneuver her wheelchair. Occasionally, I’d push her chair, and I immediately became Nice Person Number One -- the sort who got asked the time, or to exchange two fifties for a pound coin. I was out with a girl in a wheelchair: I must be trustable. Or at the very least, easy to impose upon.

“Haven’t you ever had the urge to rob a bank or something?” I asked her. “Doesn’t it drive you absolutely nuts being The Disabled Person?”

Polly tilted to her head to one side for a few seconds as if considering the matter. “Well...” she said. “Yes, of course it does, you idiot. I’m used to it, because I can’t remember anything else, whereas for you it’s new and weird, but I think I could fairly say that it drives me absolutely nuts.”

Polly had a habit of using my exact words in her own, very posh, tones. I knew perfectly well that she meant it as a piss take -- or, as Pollyanna would have it, “to sound completely ridiculous.” In saying that she “couldn’t remember” anything else, she was also telling the exact truth. Her left leg had been paralyzed after she got polio -- which, frankly, I didn’t hadn’t even known still existed these days -- as a baby. Apparently she’d managed an amazing run of bad luck involving being too ill to have the vaccine at the appropriate time, followed by catching polio (or whatever you did with it) before they’d had time to re-schedule the jab. Even then, Polly said, most cases didn’t end up with paralysis. “I was just particularly lucky,” she said ironically.

The first time she showed me her leg, it was a bit of a shock. I don’t know, somehow I’d expected it to look okay, even if she couldn’t use it. Especially with Polly being so damn gorgeous everywhere else. But it wasn’t. It was kind of... withered, I guess. Shrunken. It didn’t seem to go with the rest of her. She saw my expression and smiled.

“You see? There’s good reason for my long skirts!”

That was as near as she got to regret for all she’d been through. In a way, I felt she did deserve the Pollyanna tag: I regularly got angry that she was treated as if she had a mental as well as a physical disability, and when she told me about the circs surrounding her getting ill, I felt furious with the unfairness. Polly, however, just shrugged.

“It’s one of those things, isn’t it?” she said. “I could sit here and grump about it, or I could get on with life. I mean, I could be dead and I’m not. Lucky me.”

“Pollyanna!” I retorted, and she laughed.

I wondered, at first, what it would be like going to bed with her, whether the paralyzed leg would make a big difference. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to think that, but I bet everyone does, just a little. I wasn’t bothered, but I was a bit hesitant. I knew that Polly was, too; when I taxed her with it, she blushed.

“It’s not precisely beautiful,” she said. I guess for someone as beautiful Polly, it made a big difference. “And...” She took a long swig of her drink (we were at her place, sharing a bottle of wine). “Well, I never have.”

“Never have what?” I asked, being uncommonly thick.

She gave me A Look. “Not a whole lot of people fancy dating girls in chairs,” she said patiently. “In fact, to put it bluntly, two people before you -- one guy, and one girl. I got as far as kissing in both relationships, but no further. Of course,” she said, her teasing smile coming out, “I still need plenty of practice at the kissing thing...”

I might be thick, but I can take a hint as big as a mountain. I leaned over and kissed her, the arm of the wheelchair doing its usual job of jabbing me in the stomach.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” I suggested.

Polly could and did get around on crutches in her house, though she tended to stick to her chair. When I pointed this out to her, she gave her usual shrug. “I forget,” she said. “The chair’s so much part of me -- which,” she added thoughtfully, “is why I don’t like people touching it without asking: it feels as if they’re doing it to me -- that I don’t always remember to get out.”

Now, however, she picked up the crutches to lever herself up and into the bedroom. I’d been in there with her before, and it was very Polly. On the face of it, very ‘pretty-pretty,’ but when you looked deeper there was a lot going on -- most of which was contradictory. Her Arsenal team photo (signed, of course) was pinned on the wall next to a purple-and-blue seascape; the flowers on one end of her windowsill were challenged by the cactus down the other end. I turned away from the room and looked at her. Her blonde hair was curling around her face; she was wearing a long velvet-y green dress and some ridiculously sparkly jewelry. Not my style at all -- and yet I loved her. Weird, really. But then, so was Polly. I ran a hand through her curls, smoothed my fingers across her cheekbone.

“Hey, Pollyanna,” I said softly.

She raised her head to mine and kissed me gently on the lips, then a little more firmly. I stroked my hand over her shoulder and down toward where the swell of her breasts lay under the dress. I’ve always been keen on tits, having nothing much to speak of in that direction myself, and Polly was definitely in a different class from me there. In response to me touching her, she snuggled closer in, putting an arm around my neck and pulling me into a thorough embrace. I’ve never really been much for cuddling, preferring to get on with the real business, if you know what I mean, but it was quite nice having Polly acting as a human-sized teddy-bear. Only with the stuffing much more interestingly arranged than in your average cuddly toy.

Apparently, however, Pollyanna was as keen on moving on further as I was; she put her hands on my shirt and unfastened the buttons with slightly clumsy fingers. Funny, I’d never have thought Polly would be clumsy, but I didn’t mind. Made a change to feel like there was something I could do better than her. Except for walking, of course. When she finished, I shrugged the shirt off my shoulders. I didn’t have a bra on, for obvious reasons, and I waited for the inevitable critique from my well-endowed girlfriend. They didn’t usually say it, my partners, but you could see it in their eyes.

“You’re gorgeous,” Polly said, though, looking at me with this kind of strange sort of admiration, and the funny thing was, with Pollyanna looking at me that way, I believed her. At first, her eyes were on the star on my shoulder. Once more, she traced its pattern with her fingers. Somehow she knew what it meant to me, though I’d never told her why. But then she bent her head and kissed each breast in turn, first the so-called curves at the top, then the nipples. Size can’t be everything, because it felt just amazing. As far as I was concerned, Polly could’ve kept on kissing them all night and she seemed to feel the same way, too. Every so often, she looked back up at me, as if she could hardly believe that this was happening. “Leigh,” she said. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I’m really not,” I said, not being exactly used to taking compliments, but Polly only laughed at me.

“Well, I fancy you,” she said.

“That’s fortunate. I’d be buggered if you didn’t, now wouldn’t I?” I retorted. “Or rather, not buggered -- except we’re not blokes and I don’t expect there’s a dildo to hand. Or is there?” If there was, I knew a thing or two we could get up to, but I was just as happy to manage without...

“Shut up,” said Polly, kissing me to make sure I did what I was told.

It worked, too. I was quite happy to shut up and be snogged. However, there was something else I wanted, too.

“My turn now,” I said, pulling at the hem of her dress to drag it up.

Polly gave a wriggle to help me get it over her arse, but when I’d got it off her, she blushed a bit. I didn’t know anyone still did that these days.

“I feel ever so naked, Leigh,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest self-mockingly.

“Not enough,” I teased, pulling open her unresisting arms and running my fingers over her silky bra, teasing her nipples until they stood out proudly beneath the thin material. Her knickers were of the same deep green satin as the bra, I noticed. That was very Pollyanna -- even when I did bother with a bra, it was pretty much whatever I pulled out of a drawer. I’d always thought it was silly to make a fuss about something most people wouldn’t even see, but somehow it looked right on Polly.

“I wasn’t complaining about being naked,” she whispered, nibbling the top of my ear.

“I was, about the ‘not enough,’” I said. “Nice undies, Pollyanna, but even nicer off.”

“You’d better do something about it, then,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

Reckoning that since Polly hadn’t done this before I ought to give her something to remember, I kissed my way down her body, licking a path over her belly and biting her gently on the inside of her thighs. I’d kind of thought she might taste of flowers or something, but Pollyanna never did what I expected of her. She was salty and smooth and very, very, real. In a good way. She lay back contentedly as I grabbed her knickers with my teeth and pulled them over her legs. It was a bit odd, the way one leg could move and the other just lay there waiting to be prodded out of the way, but it was just like anything else, really -- I had non-existent tits, Pollyanna had a leg that didn’t work.

And just as Polly had been quite encouraging about my breasts, I found myself thinking that even her wasted leg was gorgeous, because it was Polly’s. She looked like she wanted to hide it away -- under the bedclothes if necessary -- but I wasn’t having that. I wanted to make love to all of Polly, to show her that she was bloody attractive just the way she was. I kept one hand on her bad leg, stroking it, to make sure she couldn’t pull the covers over it. Between us, we managed to get her out of her kit, which, as I told her, I’d been waiting to do for quite a while, and then I got busy.

Loads of people say I’m really mouthy at any time, but when it comes to sex, I reckon being good with your mouth is a pretty useful talent. Can’t say I’m up there with the sexy talk -- I tried it once, felt like a right idiot -- but when it comes to bringing someone off, I’m not half bad. Anyway, Polly didn’t seem to have any complaints, seeing as she was making these incredible little moan-y noises that really did it for me. I mean, I know you’re probably supposed to concentrate on one thing at a time, but I couldn’t help having one of my hands between my own legs, even as I was busy on her. There was her clit to play with, of course, but I also quite liked having my tongue deep inside her -- and so did she. Her Polly-taste was even stronger here: female and sensual. She came all of a sudden, giving this long gasping breath, and then when she was breathing fairly normally again, she dragged me up beside her.

“You’re still in jeans,” she pointed out. “Not fair.”

“You’d better do something about it, then,” I mocked.

Her eyes lit up with the challenge. “Okay.”

Polly wasn’t bad at the undressing bit; her fingers were a bit fumbly, but I wasn’t sure whether that was accidental or a good excuse to cop a feel. When I asked her, she just grinned at me wickedly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” When I was lying there naked, though, she had a bit of a crisis of confidence. “I won’t be as good as you,” she said, her hand resting uncertainly on my belly.

I grinned, seeing an opportunity to get my own back. “Most people aren’t.”

She gave me a shove, but I reckon it helped her get over her nerves. Turned out she shouldn’t have had any -- she could’ve told me she’d had plenty of girls before me and I’d have believed her. Frankly, after the first minute or so, I didn’t give a damn what or who she’d done before in her life, because she was doing me more than well enough. To start with, Pollyanna had this great look of concentration on her face, like she was learning to drive or something. It was kind of cute, too, her face being all serious while her hands ran over my body with eager anticipation.

Polly was a natural -- she seemed to know all the places to touch, all the range of touches. I guess you could say she knew all about slap and tickle. She also -- and this shouldn’t have surprised me -- was an expert in teasing me ‘til I wanted to scream out, “Just fuck me now!” But she knew when to stop teasing, too, and to get on with the action. Soon, she was lying beside me, propped up on one arm with the other hand diving inside me, her breasts jiggling like they were begging to be sucked -- something that I was more than willing to do for her (okay, and for me.) And by that time, her face was bloody amazing. The seriousness was gone, and instead... well, you know when you say “her face was a picture”? I’ll tell you what, you’d have known from Pollyanna’s face alone that it was a porno picture. Hot didn’t cover it. She seemed to be having as much pleasure out of giving as I was from getting. Mind you, pretty soon after that, I stopped thinking about anything but me, and what she was doing. Did I mention ‘amazing’?

I came twice and she came three times. She told me she’d save my next one for later. Later sounded good to me.

Afterward, we went down to the Black Griffin and watched Arsenal play Liverpool. Arsenal scored six. Turns out Pollyanna’s good at everything.