Oh, good work. Jude was more readable here, here where the bar was a theater and they were all walk-on parts or props to someone else's main show (most drunks fancy the world rotates at their leisure, the bartender was nothing but a non-speaking part, naturally). But he was not openly objectionable so much as flirting his hand of cards at the dealer and he grinned, nothing coy about it as she challenged his assertion of (dubious) innocence.
"I'm excellent company," he said without batting an eyelash and without turning away from the display of prompt enjoyment of the poured beer and if she folded herself around it like a starving dog commandeered its food bowl, well, we're all friends here and thereabouts.
Distinct, yes. Distinct, and Jude filed that one away for further purpose. "I have a show-piece. Play chopsticks on the piano, that kind of thing. Mothers love me."
He served someone else in a whisk of efficiency, 'there you are, sunshine, have a good one', an exchange of cash and then he was back to see her emerge from the recesses of the glass.
"Cat doesn't go in for 'bad'. 'Mediocre', if you're pushing it. But not bad. See, worth it."