The exception that makes the rule

Ran into the lieutenant last night - sigh - we bumped into each other as we were both heading for our favorite bar stool. Rita, a fifty-something Scottish bartender-ess who seems to knows the lieutenant very well, greeted him, then me, and offered him a little taste of a new beer from a freshly hooked up keg. What's it like? I said. He had just emptied his glass; he looked around to see if anyone was looking, then streched out his arm to the beer tap and put a little in his glass for me to taste. Nice, I said, smiling. He inquired about how I was, what I had been up to, chatted a bit about the differences between Montreal & Ottawa, then kissed my Botox-free forehead. We'll meet again here, all right? he said; winked, and went back to his table where his buddies were.

Did I mention he's from Montreal, like me? That he speaks French and English very well, like me?

That he's absolutely gorgeous?

Yep.