A reliable sign of when I should go home is when I want to play the jukebox. Even that simple pleasure was already taken by a good-sized line.
She'd brought me more vodka, unasked. Not more water, nor more tea.
My attempts to make nice with the next table had failed. Being in town for the tattoo convention, they'd mistaken the obvious fact that I don't show my ink for the conclusion that I have none. They are, in fact, the reason why all my substantial ink can be concealed in modest attire. Enough of my life is a sideshow; the minimal privacy I demand is not to be gawked at by strangers. To some in the community, that makes me some sort of dilettante. That's their call, but none of them are courting venture capital, nor working in a growth industry. Someday, I will purchase them outright.
I left a twenty on the table without touching the new vodka. More liquor wasn't what I wanted, and the feeling of the bar wasn't going to deliver the camaraderie I wanted. The unpleasantly mature choice was to go home. Thus: this.