He'd had the conversation with the incubus a while ago, and he couldn't get it out of his head. He replayed it oer and over, the way he replayed some of the passages from The Path To Zen, repeating the words until they became part of him, fully imbedded in his subconscious. Spending the better part of 12 years in solitary confinement honed the skill to perfection, and Charlie Crews was a perfectionist.
He forced himself to sit in the bar proper, where anyone could see him. He kept his hands above the table, so he wouldn't give in to the urges drawn so effectively, so perfectly, to the surface. He kept a glass of water in reach, and a a plate of grapes. Whenever he felt like he might give in to touching himself, he ate a grape. He'd eaten more than half, probably close to two-thirds of the grapes Bar had given him. When the plate was empty, he'd let himself go upstairs for some...relief.