“I really like the story you read. I can totally relate to the male character.”
“Thanks!”
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a flask of whiskey, takes a sip, offers it to you.
“No thanks, I don’t drink.”
A beat.
“Oh.”
You try one of the self-effacing sobriety shticks that sometimes work.
“I used to, y’know, I just kind of used up my life’s quota faster than I was supposed to, heh.”
She nods, takes another sip, and starts looking around the room to see who else is here.
Later, by the keg, different writer.
“Hey, you’re [semi-famous indie writer]. I really loved your book, I read it twice as soon as I got it.”
“Thanks! Here, you want a beer?”
“No thanks.”
A beat.
“Don’t drink.”
And she starts looking around the room…
and over
and over
and over
until now you know to just hang by the door so as soon as the reading is over you can escape to your car, where you can still harbor the dim fantasy that somebody back inside is saying, “Hey, wasn’t that Ray guy here? I wanted to talk to him”, instead of sticking around long enough to prove the fantasy wrong.
