If I hadn’t hated my life up to this point, I would have by then. I’d nursed the absynthe as long as I could. The buzz was pleasant but threatened far worse if I followed it. The bartender kept giving me the eye. I kidded myself it was something about my green eyes, but no barkeep likes a one-drink customer.

Some suit was making a big show of an entrance, all glad handing and broad smiles. The smiles were fake, and I had a suspicion the handshakes were a bit sweaty. I knew the look—engaging but disengaged. Mostly I saw it on blind dates.

Once again I had a leering buddy on the other side of well polished wood whose eyes said clearly, “Aren’t you going order anything?”

So I ordered, “I’ll have a cup of coffee, please.”

“Bit early for sobering up, isn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t want to miss anything fun.”

“I don’t suppose a fella like you would.”

I let that hang there without responding. By and by he came back with my drink, a steaming cup of attention.

I had a feeling I’d need every drop of it.