A woman walked into a bar in Nepal. The year was 1929.
"If you tell me a joke I've never heard before, the first drink's on the house," said the bartender, watching as the woman settled herself down on a stool and knocked the snow from her boots.
The woman frowned; she couldn't say she knew very many jokes. But, then it struck her. She smiled triumphantly as she started to pull off her thick, fur-lined gloves.
"A Roman walks into a bar and asks for a martinus," she said. "The bartender says to him,
The Roman says,
The bartender slapped the worn old bartop and she groaned out loud. The woman grinned. She held out her hand and the bartender shook it firmly, warmly.
"Evelyn Carnahan," the woman said, by way of introduction.
"Marion Ravenwood," the bartender replied. Evy had found precisely who she'd come to look for, there in that damp little Nepalese bar.
Marion hadn't heard the joke before, so Evy won her free drink.
She got another when the first was done and then another after that,
the two of them talking and talking in the warm torchlight until the sun came up on the snow outside the door and turned it so dazzling white that Evy couldn't bear to look at it.
Marion could hold her liquor, it seemed, and Evy liked to think she could hold hers, too. She certainly didn't knock over the bottle. She definitely didn't do it twice.
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