I regarded the bartender. He was young, perhaps 25, but there was a world-weariness in his countenance that spoke to a short lifetime of difficulties. Those difficulties were etched into his body. His tattooed arms and chest were a canvas of Celtic symbols, plants, and zombies. His earlobes had been cut and were distended, looking like three fleshy icicles.
Then there was the tremble. The boyâ€™s hands shook, ever so slightly. But they constantly shook.
I wondered about his short past and his story, as I sipped the most delightful cocktail he concocted for me on the spot.