After a canceled date, a long day at work and other assorted 20-something administrative issues, Shaina and I decided to get a drink. We met on the corner of 14th and B and bought popsicles, sucking them down and stopping at my regular bar on 11th where the bartender always smells my hair.
We drank dark whiskey and watched the younger 20-something boys light cigarettes and smoke them down to the filters. They coughed delicately, like women, and adjusted themselves in their jeans.
After, we rambled west and tucked into an acclaimed dive bar on First. We started at a small table but later migrated to the bar, our scotch rocks glasses in hand. The big lush ducked over into a seat next to us.
“I am in love with you,” the drunk told me.
I was not in love with him.
He was escorted out of the bar and we continued to sip our scotch and play the favorite hypothetical game, “Who would win in a fight?” I wanted to win, I told Shaina, and asked for a hypothetical rematch.
Eventually, the drunk came back and was replaced by Carlos, who bought us another round. He pushed a bag into my hand and I, with a smile vibrant with frustration and remorse, pushed it back into his hand and so on and so on. My explanations were worthless and unreasonable.
Never trust a man with three names.
The bartender bought us a round and Carlos did, too. I declined shots and rested my head against my arm long enough to know it was time to leave.