I’m reminded of a story I wrote a few years ago, called “Sunset Park”. It goes:

I didn’t have any friends. So I went to a bar one evening, not in my own neighborhood but in a neighborhood I had to take a train to get to, and ordered beer after beer, and drank each one of them, until I was so inebriated that I’d lost my inhibitions, and found it easy to approach a table at which two men and two women were seated and to start talking to them, though the next morning I couldn’t remember what I’d said to them, and could remember only that both of the men and one of the women had not been pleased with my attempts to converse with them, though the other of the two women, who’d seemed neither pleased nor displeased, but more like worried and amused, had gotten up from her chair and had taken me by the elbow and had guided me back to the stool at which I’d been sitting, at the bar, at which point the bartender had thanked her and then, after she’d returned to her table, had told me I needed to leave.