There was a drunk in the men’s room stall...

and he was singing in a low voice, “Ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall…” slurring rather. Not knowing how long he’d been on his throne, I couldn’t tell if he’d just recently begun or couldn’t, in his condition, get through the nineties.
His singing disturbed my concentration and dried up my stream. There were other things on my mind that might have the same effect, to be sure. I knew with the surgery I was soon to face, I shouldn’t even be in a bar, but then, I had no one waiting at home to provide consolation, and at least here, at the Dew Drop, there were lights and music, however dim and off-key. And Happy Hour was not to be taken lightly.
When the drunk stopped counting bottles and a thud sounding like a falling body followed, I thought to check if he was still seated upright but felt I had not enough self-constructed consolation to share.