There are few things more depressing than a bar when the lights come up. As I sat there at Olive’s, I thought that the surroundings looked bleaker, dirtier, and cheaper than they had when the bar was lit by soft twinkling lights over the mirrored back of the bar and the flickering candles on the tables.
The bartender, a dreadlocked white guy with twin tattoo sleeves on his exposed arms, leaned over the bar to call out to me. “Hey buddy…you know that line?”
He was kind of cute. I smiled at him. “No. What do you mean?”
“The one that goes something like: ‘you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.’ Last call was fifteen minutes ago.”
I flushed red. I got unsteadily to my feet (how many beers had I managed to down, anyway?) and found my way to the exit. The floor was littered with
