“Well, my day has been a little less dramatic than yours, but I got to make some awesome progress on Carmen’s MVP—the minimum viable product,” he reminds me. “It’s not finished yet, but I think she’s going to be really happy with it. I mean, I hope.” He knocks on the wooden bar.

“Cool,” I say, wishing I could sound as genuinely enthusiastic as he deserves.

“I considered working out this morning, but then just got honest with myself and canceled my gym membership, which I’ve used maybe twice in the past two months,” he adds.

“Ha,” I say. It sounds morose; I can’t even laugh properly.

He thinks for a moment, then pulls out his phone. “I’m just gonna show you the cutest baby animals on the entire internet, okay?” he says.

Sure enough, a moment later, I’m looking at a wobbly-legged baby alpaca that appears to be more fluff than actual skin and bones. Next, he shows me a GIF of a pile of wriggling newborn golden retrievers, and then the most precious tuxedo kitten I’ve ever seen. It’s a lot. The reptilian part of my brain is delighted by all of this; I actually squeal.

“Aha!” he says triumphantly. “A smile. I got it. Be right back.”

He snags one of my mozzarella sticks, quickly scans the room to make sure nobody needs him, and then ducks into the room for employees only. I bide my time, sipping my drink, eating my snacks, and people-watching instead of scrolling through my phone. But eventually, I have to check the time. Fifteen minutes have passed. It’s weird that Raj has been gone for so long. I can see customers getting antsy, too: nearby, it looks like a first date has run entirely out of steam, one stares boringly off into space while the other cranes for the check. Two people are actively pressed up against the bar, waiting to place drink orders. Where is Raj? I consider texting him. It’s especially weird for him to vanish with no warning while I’m here. It’s sort of become an unspoken rule between us: I’m not just here for the drinks anymore; I’m here for our friendship. Even if he’s technically working, Golden Years is a chill place for us to hang out.

Just as the first date couple looks as if they might die of boring conversation, Raj emerges. He does a quick round of attending to customers: taking drink orders, offering refills, printing checks. He swings by my end of the bar.

“How’s it going over here?” he asks.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “All good. Hey, did you hear what Trump tweeted today?”

“Oy, no, I must have missed it.”

“Okay, so . . .” he says. His eyes bulge out.