Somebody’s girlfriend is crying outside. It’s raining, frigid cold and after midnight.

That someone was sitting at the end of the bar. I know because he’s in every Wednesday night, most times with her sometimes alone. They had been in earlier, happy and on a date. He is a good looking kid no more than 22.

An obsidian mane piled high and greased to perfection with pale blue eyes and a hell of a smile, at least what can be seen through the sneer. A wicked scar runs from his forehead to the cheek over his right eye, glazed with quiet rage and drunkenness. The same one that has been staring at the shot of tequila on the bar for 20 minutes now.

I notice a bunch of crumpled cocktail napkins in front of him and I come over with a glass of water.

“How’s it going, Frank?”

He manages to lift his now heavy and swimming head.

“Fine, Chuck.”

He grins and looks back at his drink. Like anyone who knows how to shoot tequila straight, He cocks his head to the ceiling, pulls up the shot, opening his throat, letting the fire hit his gullet before he can taste it. As his face comes back into view I notice his lip and then understand the pile of napkins on the bar.

“Goddammit, Frank just because you look like an extra from Twighlight gives you no right to drip blood everywhere, Jesus, what happened to you?"

“It was f’ing Daphne again."

I clear the bar napkins, reach into my back pocket and hand him my handkerchief refilling his water. At this point he goes into a diatribe of expletives better left to the reader’s imagination.

Apparently the date did not go well.

At this point Daphne comes in and grabs him by the arm. He jerks away as she whispers what I imagine is a “F You!” in his ear and she leaves.

“Chuck, one more shot, one more chot, Shuck.”

“Frank the last thing you need is another drink. What you need is to sleep it off.”

“C’mon, Chuck I’ll buy ya one.”

I look at the clock. It’s damn near closing and I could use a drink.

“After you finish that water," I say pouring the round. We take our shots, slam the glasses on the bar and I clear my throat, “See ya next Frank, See ya next week."

The bottom line is love is sometimes shit-faced drunk. You need to look in it’s glassy-eyed stare and do your best to understand its slurry lips looking to fight or fornicated or both.

And after carrying its limp body up the stairs, smelling of vomit sometimes you need to let it eat corn chips with it’s shirt off and still accept it. If not, then you’re doomed.

Of course you could always quit drinking but c’mon, it’s almost Wednesday night.