I looked at my watch, and it was 10:15. I was mildly annoyed. I was running out of things to think about. Ike Turner had died, another person I like for his work despite the accusations leveled at him. I could run with that, so I did for a little while, humming "Rocket 88" to myself. The important thing about waiting for someone to show up is that you mustn't look as if you are waiting for someone to show up. Then, heaven forbid, if they never show, you don't look like a gigantic loser.

The bartenders were laughing about something and I had a pang to join in, but I was feeling sort of solitary. Waiting for people who are late always makes me feel solitary.


You know what? Fuck this, I thought. I've spent my whole life waiting for people. Why sit here all by myself, thoughts wandering to pedophilia, when I could be home, watching my Netflix and eating Cheez-Its? And what is going through the head of the person who keeps someone waiting for almost an hour? Grrr.

The barkeep asked if I wanted another. I said no, getting up and putting on my jacket like I had an engagement elsewhere with someone exciting whom I had kept waiting. "Gotta run," I said with a wave, leaving a tip. I texted my friend that I was leaving so don't bother showing up, buttcheek. I mean, jeez. I have a life, you know.

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