“Finished your milk?” The barkeep asked. I pushed my glass away and burped, happy as a baby.

A quick glance around was enough to reverse my alcohol-induced levity. A few other dour-faced men hunched over their drinks: loners like myself, washed up against the driftwood of the bar. This part of the club was in hushed semi-darkness, a contrast to the glittering lights and hubub of the dining area. I felt as though I was a peripheral character in my own life, orbiting the rim of some far-off galaxy, looking inwards as distant action unfolded before me.

“Anything wrong, fella?”

The barkeep: a kindly fellow, I decided, in spite of his appearance. He smiled at me reassuringly, his eyes occasionally flicking to something out of sight beneath the bar.

Feeling my existentialist moment pass, I became aware of the music:

I’d like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

“Not anymore,” I replied, decision suddenly made. “Thanks.”

I stood, and made for the dance floor.