things move around

Last night this happened: the waitress came over to my table with a beer, and as she put it down, she said quietly but clearly, without looking at me, “scarred for life”, and then she walked off before I could respond. Grant in a rare moment of insight speculated that she might have been “a Jehovah, from the Jehovah place across the road”. Do the Witnesses have a problem with booze? I don’t know. But she did look like she could use a blood transfusion; she was pale and very slight, with lustreless ginger hair. She didn’t come back after that; some bloke took over the table, the usual small-town lunk.