In the dim cherry light of the bar, he closes his eyes tight, leans forward on his narrow little feet and coos about the woman who left him hanging. His fingers are so fast on the strings of his banjo that they seem impossible, even though he stops every few seconds to shake his head at some imagined mistake. He leans so far over the bar that he could rest his head on it, and I'd pet him, run my fingers through the bark darkness of his curls until the sun rose, until he wasn't whimpering drunk anymore.
He straightens up again, offers me some Crown Royal. When I decline he offers it to Sarah, then Caroline. Caroline blushes, shakes her head. "I'm good," she says.
"Come on, baby," he says. He seems to think that maybe a sip of whiskey might close the gap between him and the ladies surrounding him. All the men sitting between us just laugh.
"No thanks, I'm okay!" Caroline smiles at everyone.
"It makes you feel comfortable," he says, "like you're on a comfortable couch full of cushions." He lifts his right hand to the bar and shifts his weight. "And also, like you're about to vomit."
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