The guy who turns you down.

I’ve only been turned down at the bar. One hipster guy in skinny black jeans and Chucks. He wore a vest and a striped shirt—you know the kind. He had a beard—which I totally dig, so I was drawn to him like a moth to a flickering bulb. He flickered—he stuttered to turn me down, “Not tonight, man” as he stood there, alone, bobbing his head.