Emmet nearly swallows her tongue along with the last little bit of beer. There a face in the bottom of her glass — it’s an old woman’s face, not anyone she knows. She’s about four beers in, so she’s tight, a little, but not drunk, really, so it’s not that. She looks around the bar. It’s an off night, so it’s just her and the bartender and G-Money, who always sings Def Leppard on karaoke night, and a no-hoper playing pull tabs. She waves the bartender over.
“Hey,” she says. “Take a look in here. You see anything?”
The bartender’s wearing a shirt with a stick figure masturbating on it. He looks into the glass and shakes his head. “Another one?”
“Nah, not yet. Maybe later.” He drifts back down the bar, sells another fistful of tabs. The old woman’s still looking up at her, whispering something. She holds the glass up to her ear and strains to catch her voice. She’d feel stupid, only one time one of the methheads took a crap on the bar, so there’s some latitude here. No one even looks at her.