Pat sat up on his bar stool, and a blue line of pain wrenched his left leg. He almost fell off the stool but steadied himself. The involuntary spasms of his left side were happening more when he drank, but he would drink past it. An ominous flare-up of the MS before everything went dull again. He ordered another drink from Kevin—Sorry, Keith—and Pat slid another $10 on the bar. He had to be careful or he’d be calling a taxi. Sip this one. Then maybe one more and that’s it. Pat dreaded the thought of going home. Into this anguish crept a warm female voice.

“Hola.”

Pat turned from the bar. She was brunette, pixie short but wearing heels with black jeans and a black bustier crop top. She was younger than Pat, but not by much, her skin no longer olive, more orange. She wore several gold chains, including one with a Guadalupe medal. She smiled.

“I’m Carmen.”

“Hola, Carmen.”

“You’ve been here before, no? We were talking? It’s John, right?”

“Pat.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s good to see you, Pat. How are you?”

Pat had seen her in Doll’s before. Maybe. He wasn’t sure.

“I’ve been better, Carmen.”

“I’m sorry, baby. Can you get him to come over?”

“Kevin. Sorry—Keith.”

Pat bought her a whiskey agrio, and Carmen pulled up on the bar stool next to him. Keith and Carmen eyed each other knowingly, which Pat, punching his ticket for another Bushmills, didn’t quite register.

“So what’s wrong?” she purred.

“I don’t know. A lot of things. Don’t want to be here. Don’t want to go home.”

“Oh yeah?” She bit on a red swizzle and toyed with it. “Sounds like you’re bored. I’m bored too. You bored, Pat?”

“This place could make you bored of being bored.”

Carmen threw her head back and laughed. It was too much for the joke and surprised Pat. By the time she had regrouped, she had put her hand on Pat’s arm.

“You are funny. You live around here? You don’t sound like a Texan.”

“No, no Tejano.” Something in Pat stirred as he looked down at her fake pink nails. Her smile, her slightly broken English, it all seemed gentle, just lonely and sad like him. Everyone is this way deep down, the whiskey told him.

“I’m from New York.”

“Wow. New York. So are you traveling? Are you staying at a hotel?”

“No, I live in Dallas now.”

“I see.” Carmen swizzled a little closer. “So what do you do, Pat, so you’re not bored?”

“Sadly, you’re looking at it.” Pat took a big pull off his whiskey. Is this my fifth? Wait, are we counting doubles? No, five. His new limit for driving and basic compos mentis. No mile a minute, no spins. Just warm and calm and dull.

“I like to drink too. Makes things . . .” She searched for a word. “Like, relaxed, cool.”