In silence I sipped at my wine. Mmmm, Zinfandel. Good stuff.

A cheer went up from the other side of the room. Something about football or hockey, I suppose.

Smoke makes your contacts stick to your eyes. At least it does to mine. I knew I should have worn my glasses. Sometimes my contacts feel like some ill-begotten leaf that's fallen from the tree, crumpled in a heap of autumn and rain, and right onto the most annoying spot on my windshield where it won't dislodge except with a scraper and that's because of the frost and duff it's excreted onto the glass.

“Why are you here?” I nearly knocked my glass over when that voice grumbled from around the corner of the bar.

In all of our pretendings behind closed doors, we come up with magnificent answers to startling questions like that. Usually something witty, off the top of our head but well planned in front of a mirror. They say that you can tell an actor if they stand in front of a mirror and make faces. (Babies and monkeys make faces in mirrors as well, so maybe I should not hold “they” verbatim.) However, even actors (and babies and monkeys) cannot plan perfectly their reactions. Thankfully I am not in the last two categories, else I would have said, “Ook!” or “*spittle*”. Instead, I eloquently replied, “What?!” in pure startlement.

“Well, those loud ones are here for the game,” replied the nail rattling voice, “and the gentlemen to your right appear to be snuffing their sorrows unsuccessfully.” I glanced over to the indicated depressed drinkers and flinched my eyes away in disgust at the drooling, smoking, stinking mass of whining lovelorn men. They were actually trying to sing, in harmony, the song, “She’s Always a Woman [to Me]” and successfully failing miserably. “But you, you have ordered wine. A joyous drink. Why are you here?”

We’re dealing with a weirdo, folks. My mirror actor hid herself away from my pleading memory of intelligent banter (not that I would have seen her coy face looking back at me in all this unnatural fog). All I could produce was a reply worthy of the little cookie guy in American Sweethearts: “Why are any of us here?”

Is it possible that a taproom filled with depressed singing men, giggly under-dressed girls, and the largest party of hockey--or possibly football--fans (who must be watching the last game of the season) could have an occupied seat that projected disdainfully felt silence? Why, yes, self, it is possible! And all that silent hauteur was projecting at me!

I shifted uncomfortably. Well, why not answer him? cerebellumed I It’s your own fault if you go to a--for lack of better words since they’ve all fled with the mirror—social place and are talked to. “I’m here because I don’t want to have to buy a whole bottle of wine, but would just like a glass without the expense.”

Silence again. Alright, I admit it, for all my good advice of “let them fill the awkward silences,” I was on the verge of disregarding myself and asking Mr. Impertinent Voice Like a ChainSaw what he was doing here. Don’t ya love will power to follow your own advice?

At last he chuckled. This wasn’t worse, but definitely unexpected because he sounded like so many ticks being thrown around an empty leather bag. “That’s what I said once.”

“I’m sorry?” Maybe I shouldn’t have gone out tonight, I was absolutely imperfecting the art of small talk.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly talking about wine, but it was nearly the same.”

“Oh.”

Apparently this was enough encouragement for him to continue. “When it comes to delicacies, I am a true proficient. Wine, meats, confectioneries, I am a judge of artistry in all culinary and liquid fields. Those in my line of business do not let themselves get carried away.”

“Well I’m not a wine-tast—“ He interrupted me.

“Before I had officially begun my career, I was vacationing in a small, vague, unknown island.” Geesh, this guy really needs to talk. I simply continued to sip my wine. “I doubt you would have heard of it.” I bet I have. “On my stay there a meat of the rarest, the finest, the most scrumptious delicacy happened across my pallet. I told myself I thought I would never find such a wonder again. Then, to my astonishment, I discovered that this meat was apart of a sort of mammal only found on the island. More specifically, the beast from which I had tasted was the best, most cultured creature of its kind. I had to have it. I went out of my mind searching for it. But never could I catch the creature until my last day on the island when I was pulling away from shore, it flung itself at me. Ah the joy that filled my heart!” My glass was nearly finished. I nibbled at the free kudu jerky pretzels in the basket in front of me. “Never after have I relished such a sweet, tangy fillet. Now I am left to pine with french cuisine and the most aged wines. But what is that to what that island had to offer me.”

I finished off the Zinfandel and attacked the bottom of the pretzel basket. “Why don’t you just go back there?”

“I can’t.”

A soppy head to my right leaned over, “The li’l missus has you tied down here, eh? Lucky bugger.” He hiccuped.

“Nothing of the kind,” said the figure. “I’m too—“ a ringing, as of from an alarm clock was heard.

“Last call for drinks!” shouted the bartender.

“You’re too?” I prompted.

“See ya tomorrow night?” asked the bartender waving a dishtowel in the direction of the Taste-Tester.

“As always.”

I was seriously frustrated. If I wasn’t allowed to spend my anti-social social time in peace, then he wasn’t allowed to leave without telling me the end. “You’re too what?” I asked the rising figure.

The head emerged from the shadows, grinned toothily, and patted his ringing belly. “Old.”

I hate smoke. It hides so many things. And all the crocodile wanted was a meal. So I saluted him with my tuna can.