In the mirror behind the bar Karl considered his own angular features. The chin was a bit prominent, and the eyes were a little dark. Even in a mood as he was, he wouldn’t call himself unattractive. No, there was another problem.
Missy came to a slumping stop on the stool next to him, “Karl, buddy, you are one morose drunk.” Her words were slurred which made him smile.
“Nothing cuter than a drunk English major, mydear. And I’m not.”
“Oooh,” she scoffed in a long, tequila-tainted breath, “You are so morose, dreary, dark, forlorn…”
“I mean I’m not drunk. This is my first beer.” He waved the bottle in front of her.
“Oh,” She looked thoughtful, then with a nod downed the shot sent over from the leering guy at the end of the bar. “Then why so glum?”
“Because mydear, I’ve come to a conclusion.” With a toast, he spelled it out, “I try to be good. I really do. I want to be heroic, but the facts are plain: my looks, my name, and my own scheming mind. I, mydear, am the villain of the picture.”