Normally I wouldn't be able to resist approaching people like this, those I have listened in on and been intrigued by. And I knew they wouldn't be offended if I asked them what band they were in; in most cases, my curiosity and OCD would force such an inquiry, like a recovering drug addict who makes the unfortunate decision to live right next to the 16th Street BART station.
I'm sure all this back-and-forth betwixt my ego and my id was being played out on my face. I know it was, in fact, because there are mirrors across the bar at Tosca, and I found myself quite embarrassed when I realized that the facially gesticulating Muppet in the glass was actually me.
Then I did something pretty amazing. I got up mid-schwa and left without talking to the goddamn band. I left without an ending, and the strange thing is, it actually lifted my spirits. Here's to incompletion.