i put my hands on the counter, fingers brushing through spilt beer or whatever condensation was left behind by the filthy glasses held in the hands of the briefly my problem. the head throbs in some far off place that dissipates every time i remind myself to take an ibuprofen. so i never take an ibuprofen.
i scan the room, looking out for empty glasses needing to be filled and jab at the screen of my phone. three jerk offs i just finished serving went to the bar for shots. for once i am glad. fuck them. one more interaction with anyone in this room tonight is going to drive me nuts.
instead of doing anything for anyone, i do something for me. i grab a smoke and head for the patio. the cold knocks my headache back to the forefront of my thoughts as i sit down, avoiding the eye of some guy who has fucked a few of my friends and thought, perhaps, he had a shot with me. he reeks of pot and desperation. he looks like mr potato head. i inhale and talk all around him.
my mind wanders to no one in particular. just a faintly guilty fantasy that i could go home tonight and that there would be someone waiting there, someone i could have hbo sex with. someone who would somehow make it so i would not have to get up in the morning and face a double shift, one of them being the last i will have here, at this bar.
i hate goodbyes. i guess that, and sheer exhaustion will propel me through the door without saying goodbye to anyone, once this shift is over.