We finished one glass and started in on another. The more we drank the more we talked and the more certain I was that I knew exactly what I was talking about, regardless of the topic. That night, at Gene’s dining room table, we solved all the world’s problems in regard to politics, the military, universal health care, social security, art and literature, relationships and women. After a while I became numb but I was completely attuned to the conversation and only vaguely noticed anything else. I was in a place of rare honesty, feeling that I could say precisely what I thought and felt and have it received without judgment.

“So how are things with Linda?” I asked sometime around the fourth glass.

“Not bad. Been a month and a half now.”

“Hey, you’ve made it longer than I usually do.”

“Yeah, but you’re an asshole and a misogynist.”

“Nah, I don’t hate women. I just hate that they hold so much power over me.”

“Fair enough. And how are things with you and that angel of yours?”

I shrugged. “Mostly good.”

“And the other times?”

“Like you said, I’m an asshole.”

He nodded. “You can’t try to control her, kiddo.”

“You think I do?” I asked. I knew damn well that I did, but I didn’t know that Gene knew.

“I’ve seen it. It might work for a while, but eventually she’ll have had enough. You’ll lose her if you keep it up.”

Any other time I might have gotten pissed, felt cornered, and stormed out of the apartment. But I didn’t then. I was drunk, or maybe high—I couldn’t decide which of the two I felt more like—and in my present frame of mind, I craved advice from somebody I trusted. Things weren’t bad between Carolyn and me, but they weren’t great, either, and just because we had gotten a little off track didn’t mean we couldn’t get right back on. We had our good moments, and much of the time things were right, but that night, “much of the time” wasn’t good enough.

“Yeah, I know,” I agreed, pouring another drink. “You know, every one of my past relationships has always failed because of the same bullshit: jealousy, insecurity, fear of the past, my need to control. I always think I’m better, that I can control my actions the next time around. And I do for a while, but they always catch back up.”

“That’s because you’re focusing on the wrong thing,” Gene said. He nodded toward the coffee table. “Give me a smoke.”