Clayton Doyle wouldn't normally have been found at Scooter's Tavern. He hated the stench of intoxicated men trying to coo their way into skirts and beds. But there he was that night, sitting by himself at the bar, alone and a little overcome by the drink before him. Everything had a bit of a h a z e to it, even the bright lamps which lit the colourful bottles of liquor behind the bartender. His chin rested heavily in his hand, and it took him a few seconds to realise that someone had appeared on the stool next to his.
On any other day, he would've let that slide. But he just couldn't stomach being intruded on any more, time and time again. (Was he was going to regret this?)
"Can you please not sit there?" he muttered, fingers barring his lips as he spoke, as though trying to cage his bristling words.