We talked and drank at a moderate pace, enough to keep a buzz without becoming a puddle. Gene had a tab and every time I tried paying he’d say something to the effect of “Don’t be an asshole,” at which point I’d reply that I didn’t realize I was being an asshole and then promptly put my wallet away. Eventually he walked to the jukebox and punched in ten dollars’ worth of songs, then sat and bobbed his head while they played. Older country stuff—Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson—even an Elvis song or two. He knew several others in the bar and talked to each when they passed.

After about two hours he went to the bathroom. When he returned he draped his arm across my shoulders and grinned. “Here’s the thing, kiddo. There’s a pretty girl looking awfully forlorn at the end of the bar. And nobody should be forlorn on Christmas. You’re going to go down and talk to her.”

I saw who he was talking about. She was somewhat attractive, with dark blonde hair, sitting slumped and cross-legged. He was right. She appeared dispirited, encumbered with some heavy thought while staring blankly into the mirror.

“You know, Gene, this is probably the first time I’ve ever been in a bar without worrying about pussy. I didn’t even notice her.”

“Well, now that you notice her, you can go say hello.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Yep, going to go talk to her.”

“I don’t want to talk to her.”

“Sure you do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I’m shy.”

“All the more reason to, my boy. The one thing you’re afraid to do is a clear indicator of the one thing you need to do.”

“Ah Christ, here come the aphorisms.”

He smiled. “You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

“Yep, I knew it. Who’s that one from?”

“Beats the hell out of me, but that’s of little concern. You should be focusing on the lovely lass at the end of the bar you’re going to say hello to.”

She turned briefly and I was able see her entire face, which seemed downcast, and a watery look touched her eyes as though she was fighting the urge to cry with only moderate success. It made me sad to see her that way, the way it sometimes does when you notice people in cafés sitting alone emitting faint sighs with drooped shoulders, the people who radiate defeat, who, on one level or another, know they’ve lost the fight to the extent that it’s apparent to others.

“No way,” I said.

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ll knock a hundred bucks off next month’s rent.”

“Goddamn it, Gene, you would say something like that, wouldn’t you?”