Diary Of Eating Straights 27 -

I found myself at a noisy sports bar on the edge of town—tucked between two furniture outlets and a car wash that never seems to close. The place was packed with straights: laughter loud and defensive, beers held like shields, conversations revolving around mortgages, fantasy football, and the suspicious softness of new towels.

Bon appétit.

The target was a man named Craig, mid-thirties, wearing salmon-colored shorts and boat shoes with no socks. He was complaining to his friends about his wife’s “emotional availability” while simultaneously ordering a third IPA. Deliciously unaware.