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.