A young man walks slowly into a bar, after presenting his id to prove that he of a reasonable age to further abuse his liver in public, to openly defile his temple, he proceeds to a table and orders a pint and a double of scotch. He finds his waitress to be attractive, not exceedingly so, but Goldilocks just right in the pleasant manner of a woman with whom you could converse freely and experience the mutual exchange of jokes and truths without being continually drawn to the overwrought plasticity of her scantily clad body. To be plain: she was not a hooker. He thought of telling her so, or at least some more appropriate manifestation of his feelings, but decided not to. He had already constructed the whole of her life in his mind’s eye and her former football playing reliving the glory days still a meathead corporate automaton fiancé would not take kindly to the kind of attention he was seeking to offer. Saving himself the inevitable physical humiliation he simply sipped at his whiskey and thought deep and disturbing thoughts. He finished his beer and scotch and ordered a treble bourbon in adherence to his drunkard’s idiom, to finish off the Thorogood cliché, and to give himself one last chance to grow some balls and talk to the attractive young filly that was clearly not wearing either engagement ring or wedding band. He finished his drink in anguished silence cursing his inability to relate to people, women in general, and most specifically pretty single waitresses who get off in 15 minutes and would love to go to an all nite diner if only he would ask. Of course, we all know how this story ends. After all, it’s been playing itself out on a loop for the past three years.