He twisted the whiskey glass once, but didn't drink from it, this time. He didn't even feel properly buzzed, and something in her reaction had sent him straight from bold and friendly to morose. "Look," he said, as if ready to start something. He stopped, shook his head, and set his glass down on the bar. It remained half full, reflecting a shimmering version of him in miniature brown relief. "Honestly? I don't have a clue why I'm here." He straightened his tie. "I kind of feel like shit, so I guess I thought a party would be better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I think maybe I overestimated how capable I was going to be of like, making human conversation. So sorry about that." He gestured to the bartender again, and he tipped his head toward the guy. "You should talk to him," he said, pulling away from the bar. "Bet he'd be a better listener. Listen, I'm good at reflexes, right? I said that already. And I said you don't talk yourself down, because it doesn't help anything, and it doesn't. So we'll just say I'm good in the moment, not so good when people actually need people to say the right thing. That's not on the resume. Not part of my list of skills." He tapped the bar, and felt something in his chest tighten. "Anyway. Find somebody decent to talk to, who's not going to be a dick to you. You seem nice. You ought to get that."
With that he peeled away from the bar, leaving his half-full glass of whiskey behind.