One of the younger men—tech bro face, the kind that says he vapes mango flavor—laughed nervously. "We're just having a good time—"
"I can see that," she nodded. "But your good time is eating alive everyone else's good time. So maybe… tone it down?" She gave him classroom-teacher voice. "Just a thought."
Then she turned around and walked away.
Didn't wait for a reaction. Didn't care if they had one. Just left them stewing in silence while she returned to the bar like she'd taken out the trash.
She lifted her phone. "Okay, Mom, I'm back. What were you saying about physical therapy?"
The table sat frozen—like someone had unplugged them. Their faces said they were replaying the moment in real-time and realizing there was no comeback that didn't make things worse.
"Wow," I muttered.
Because genuinely—damn.
That wasn't power from money. Or status. Or supernatural abilities. That was just raw, condensed, uncut confidence. The kind therapists try to bottle and sell.
