MEETING MONICA
Later that night, Hans set off home. He had by now polished more than half a bottle of champagne and was, although he didn't want to admit it to himself, quite drunk. Stumbling through the back alleyways, he barely managed to find his way to the main streets.
Finally resigning himself to the obvious fact that he needed to take a break if he didn't want to fall flat on his face, he collapsed against a brick wall, his dizzy brain spinning in wild circles. He closed his eyes.
"Are you alright, sir?"
Hans' eyes snapped open. A girl with long, red hair that fell in gentle waves and blue eyes was standing in front of him. Her stilted way of speech combined with her unusual physique gave away the fact that she was a foreigner. Probably some tourist who got lost.
Realising he still hadn't answered her question, he wearily nodded. He didn't want to be fussed over, he wanted his damned head to stop spinning so he could get home.
However, the girl was not easily dissuaded. "Come on," she said, stretching out a hand. Hans reluctantly took it and began pulling himself to his feet. "Who are you?" he grumbled, trying to remember what he was doing here in the first place.
"Monica Roberts," she said. "And what would your name be?"
"Hans," he replied, slurring the words a little. "Hans Gruber."
"Well, Hans, do you live far from here?"
"No." He attempted to stand up, before falling back onto his behind like a deflated balloon.
"What's your address?"
He gave it to her. "Don't worry 'bout me," he grumbled as she proceeded to flag down a taxi that was conveniently passing by. She gave the driver the address and guided Hans into the taxi. "Well, it's not exactly my fault you chose to get pissed, is it?" she snapped at him after he grumbled a few choice words under his breath.