Staring from the other end of the bar. Peer through stringy hair, close up your old band jacket with the high Michael Jackson collar and silver buttons you once used to break open your mother's back door.
I'm Joshua Darrow, you say. I'm a slacker, but when I am in school I'm a mortuary sciences major.
You listen to their screaming judgmental stares and roll your eyes when they ask you if you pay money to study dead people. Then you spread that signature slice of teeth across your face and juju them away with your leering eyes. You take the arm of the woman sitting next to you, sipping on her rum and coke (she's particular about the spice). You rub your forehead on her shoulder like a lonely cat and lap up her surprise with your ravenous mind. You're so grimly charming that they're repulsed and utterly obsessed so they shake your hand, laugh with you, touch your elbow in passing conversation. They don't mind, they'll never see you again. Or they hope so. You scare them with your little eyes, hiding behind the mammoth cheshire grin. They whisper through their gin-sticky fingers when you turn away.
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