Prompt: For every morning after, there must have been a night before
Sundays are the pits. Yeah, I know, you have this picture of sleep-till-noon, then coffee and cinnamon rolls or some such thing and a lazy day of funny papers and football games. That ain’t the way it goes around here.
Don’t bother to tell me it’s my own fault, I know it is. But what’s a guy to do when his girl’s walked out and shacked up with some stock trader from Manhattan? Sit around on Saturday night and watch reruns of Friends? Hell, no!
Saturdays—at least since she left on June 16th—generally find me at Curly’s bar. I could do without the big TV screens and the screaming sports nuts, but I gotta say Curly puts out the biggest, coldest draft beer in the city and doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for it, either. Pretzels are free, and there always seems to be a couple of friendly broads around. I don’t think they’re free, though. So far I haven’t bothered to find out.
I heard a song once upon a time that said Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week. Damned if it ain’t the truth.]
One of those nights, when I was still kinda kicking around the idea of taking her back, you know, rehearsing in my mind the things I’d lay out for her before I’d agree to let her back in my life, I ran into this guy, Jack, who seemed to be in about the same situation I was.
“Cryin’ in your beer, buddy?” I patted him on the back, just friendly-like, you know.