I was eating at a sushi restaurant in Franklin Village by myself, switching off between beer and hot sake. Seated at the bar was a 20-something man who was nursing a large beer. Small sip here, small sip there. He began talking to the bartender about a nearby pub (where exactly it was located, the price and selection of beer), then about wine (how he liked red and white, as if he was being specific), then he asked about the history of the restaurant as if he genuinely cared when it was clear he was just trying to flirt. It was a pathetic display of hopeless Asian-infatuation, but it made for a great show to accompany dinner.
The man’s efforts left him stranded and as he sat brainstorming conversation topics, in walked a 40-something lesbian who plopped herself down two seats to his right. Without missing a beat she launched into an advice-heavy dialogue (dialogue being a generous description) about headshots and resumes with the same bartender who seemed taken aback by this involving and sudden exchange. I finished my miso soup, scooted forward and listened with an internal grin before asking for the check.
After adding the tip I took the customer receipt and wrote the following note, then strolled off into the night: