He has a white beanie pulled down to his sunglasses. He's in his forties, smiling and glancing around in the quiet bar. They do this a lot, this kind of guy. He's excited to be in a bar mid-day, and he wants to find someone on the same page. Most people are not excited, most people make an excuse. They explain their need to dip into the vice. Bad day. Angry wife. They want it understood.

Not our guy.

Our guy orders a rum and coke and goes for his phone and wallet. He produces them from the purple Crown Royal bag he carried in with him.

Crown Royal whiskey is sold in faux-velvet bags; primarily to assure with faux-class that they don't consider themselves or their drinkers classy. It's a favorite for white male college grads; who don't want to stop drinking even though they're moving through their twenties at the same alarming pace at which they're parents call them to ask if they're working full time yet.

They're not, but they're among the top tippers, so I hope they stay nearly thirty forever.

Back to our guy. The Crownbagger.

God bless a man who doesn't want to wonder what people think of him. Don't guess, he says, smiling and assured in his careful marketing campaign. No need to wonder about me; I'm in a bar at 2pm. I keep myself in a whiskey bag, but at least it's got goldfucking tassels. There's something deeply assured about this man, as he sits smiling into his cocktail. Whoever he is, he is so happy to be that and only that person that he needs me to be sure.

You won't like me, but I do.

He might be smarter than me.

He sits next to a guy spinning his wedding ring around his glass of white wine. It jumps the bar lip and hits the floor ringing.

"Lose that," laughs the Crownbagger, "and you'll be in trouble."

He laughs.

Mr. Wedding ring laughs too, but without vigor. While possibly absent minded, he blushes away his membership at the bar. His laugh is so guilty it hangs in the air, a hasty shamed apology to his wife. Dropping the ring was bad enough, but the camaraderie offered by Crownbagger was too much. Mr. Wedding ring looks around in worry, eager to prove to someone that the two men were different.

To Crownbagger, it was just barbonding.

It was interesting to see how their drinks softened the exchange. They didn't notice how differently they saw the moment. The clues were there, but sipped invisibility sat on both of them, thick and grinning.

They were still thinking, but their borders had crept in. Now, so close it was sticking to their skin, their vision of the universe had receded to happy seclusion;

broken by a ring.

They watch the game; mostly silent until Mr. Wedding Ring pays and leaves without finishing his glass.