Not a word

"Not a word." I said, re-entering the bar I'd avoided for months, anticipating gasps and murmurs from patrons at my reappearance (as if anybody here actually cared that much about my return - or even knew that I'd been gone). I beelined for my familiar seat, adopted my familiar posture, and hoped to god I wasn't going to be put through the embarrassment of having to order my familiar drink. "Don't make me ask for it." I groaned. "For what?" she said, flatly. She was pissed. I knew it. Did I mention it had been months? I was a stranger on my home turf. How is it that I no longer belong in this scene? Why can't I just get fucked up like before? Does that allure of self-destruction now desert me? So, what…now I just have to live soberly with all my raging thirst? "Just give me the usual." I said, unconvincingly. "Oh honey," she replied, pitifully, "it doesn't work like that anymore." No. I thought. I don't suppose it does.