I try to come home with a story each time I play pub poker. Yes, more often than not it's a bad beat that I drag back with me like an angry cat still attached to my leg. Tonight is different.
I knew I would get called, soundly beat, and, as has become my habit, refused the re-buy. C, with sad eyes, said, "I don't like it when you don't re-buy." Fifteen runners tonight, and therefore a quieter group. Perhaps I should have taken advantage of that and stayed.
Perhaps my quotient for patience was exhausted. The gray digger squirrel is still under the pump house. I pulled up a chair downwind twenty yards with the 20 gauge loaded with #4 shot and tried to enter its sense of time. But the wind had a chill for what I was wearing, and I began to nod off after an hour or so.
Late night addendum: tripling up on PA in 50 hands ain't too shabby.