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 boy’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.