The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

Wednesday evening I'm working at the Bar with Jocelyn, and it's a pretty good crowd for a Wednesday - maybe because the weather's somewhat warmer than it's been, so people aren't quite so single-minded about going straight home from work. My friend Dara is also hanging out at the Bar tonight, because it's been a long time since we've caught up, and because her boyfriend Dennis is out of town for the week on business.

They're moving in together very shortly; he's bought an apartment on Central Park West, and he wants them both to move in at the same time. I open another bottle of Magic Hat #9 for her, and hand it off. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"I know it. I know it. But it feels right, that's all I can tell you. I'm scared, but I'm so excited it's ridiculous."

"And that has nothing to do with how rich he is?"

"Debra, he's not rich, he just does well for himself."

"Dara, Warren does well for himself. Buying a Classic Six in a pre-war with views of the park is not doing well for yourself, it's rich."

"Okay, maybe, but in this city it's all relative."

"Are you done packing yet?"

She laughs. "I don't have to pack anything! The movers he hired are going to come do it the day before the move."

I shake my head and refrain from commenting. I'm happy for her, but sometimes there's something to be said for getting your hands dirty. Right about that moment, Jocelyn's boyfriend and Bar regular Mario comes in with his brother Angelo, and they take seats at the bar, where Jocelyn immediately starts pouring drinks for them.

"Hey, Debra, congratulations on your little nephew!" Mario shouts over to me. I wave and smile, and thank him.

"How is he Debra's nephew?" Jocelyn asks. "That would make him Debra's brother's or sister's baby, and she doesn't have any brothers or sisters."

"Right," confirms Dara. "He's Debra's second cousin."

Angelo chimes in. "Isn't your cousin's cousin your second cousin?"

"Hey, guys," I interrupt. "Thanks for your good wishes, and he's my first cousin once removed."

Jocelyn looks confused. "Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure," I nod. I don't bother mentioning that my father (for whom Aidan is a grand-nephew), being a Trusts & Estates attorney, has to understand this stuff impeccably, and has explained all of it to me a dozen times.

"Hey, speaking of brothers, did you hear about that shit A-Rod's been saying about Derek Jeter?" Mario has a way of moving on quickly and efficiently.

Angelo replies, "Yeah, they really need to ditch that guy. I don't care how good he's supposed to be, he keeps putting together record-setting slumps in the regular season and then chokes in the playoffs."

Mario nods. "You know what amazes me? I swear to God, if it were Billy Martin managing the Yankees, he'd have lost his job two or three times already in the last seven years, but Joe Torre's got some kind of bullet-proof armor. The guy can do no wrong."

"Your first problem," his brother starts, "is that Billy Martin's been dead for twenty years." That gets some laughs. "Your second is that Joe Torre's been a fantastic manager for the Yankees. Did you know that they've been ahead in games at some point in their last twenty-eight playoff series in a row? That's a record, and it's no accident!" Mario just nods and shrugs.

As I stroll past them to take some orders at the other end of the bar, I pause long enough to say, "Angelo, in the last six of those playoff series in a row, the Yankees gave up their lead and lost the series. And guess what? That's a record, too." I go serve some other folks, and when I return, the brothers are arguing.

"I just think A-Rod's got no right to air his beef with Jeter in the press. So what if they're not the best of friends? As long as they respect each other enough to play together effectively, that should be enough," Mario says.

Angelo adds, "Yeah, the guy's a son-of-a-bitch, that's for sure."

Jocelyn smiles. "Does that make his cousin the bitch's nephew?"

Mario laughs. "Either way, it wouldn't break my heart if he gets once or twice removed."

Dara waves me over again. "Debra, would you do me a huge favor?"

"Of course, honey, what is it?"

"Would you go with me when I'm moving into Dennis's new place on the first of March? It would go a long way to help me be less nervous."

"Are you kidding? Come with you to drink iced tea while we watch a few large, burly men follow your orders for a couple of hours? I wouldn't miss it for the world." She squeezes my hand.

It's early in the morning on Tuesday, January 2.

I'm at Mario's apartment with Mario, Jocelyn, Amy, Mario's brother Angelo, Vince, Jill, and a few of Mario's friends - and we're still celebrating. Since New Year's Eve is the one night Lanie and Victor don't allow staff at the Bar to drink while on duty, there's traditionally a pretty serious afterparty, and when I say pretty serious, I mean we're still celebrating early in the morning on January 2. Mario offered to host as soon as he found out that Jocelyn intended to partake of this tradition, and nobody put up much of a fight. So we've been here, drinking and partying more or less non-stop, since about five in the morning on New Year's Day. The crowd has gradually thinned to its current state from a couple of dozen at the start.

I've been valiantly fighting a cold since right after Christmas, between the ridiculous changes in the weather and the stress of working the holidays. But I guess somewhere around the fifth or sixth glass of wonderful champagne, I laid down my king and accepted my fate. Now it's early in the morning on January 2, and I'm sick. I consider myself lucky for the moment that I'm not the kind of sick I've gotten in the recent past from drinking too much, but this kind of sick isn't much better. Whatever has been in my nose for the past week or so has now found its way into my lungs, and I can't stop coughing. I can only hope I haven't infected the Bar's entire New Year's Eve clientele; that would be a poor showing of gratitude for the ridiculous sum I walked away with in tips.

My coughing fits have become a source of amusement for the assembled group, all of whom are stumbling drunk or stoned or both. But this one is making my eyes tear and my chest hurt, and I start to head for the bathroom. I never quite make it, though, because as I heave myself one good lungful of air and try to expel whatever gunk is in there, my day suddenly gets much worse. With one wrenching cough, I feel my neck spasm, and I cry out. I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, holding my neck.

Most of the group laughs, but Vince is there almost immediately, looking me over. He's got some First Aid training, so I let him check me out while I sit there with my eyes closed tightly in pain. "You probably just pulled something, Debra, but you ought to get it checked out."

I squint at him. "Do you think they'll give my lungs a good vacuuming while I'm there?"

He smiles, then just as quickly he stops. "Hey, open your eyes all the way for a sec, okay?" I do. "Okay, I'm taking you to the hospital. Jill," he calls over to his girlfriend, my roommate, "can you get my stuff? I'm taking Debra to the hospital." He's this serious seldom enough that Jill barely hesitates. Both of her. I'm seeing two of her. And of everything.

"Vince, I'm seeing double."

He's already putting on his jacket. "Debra, don't be alarmed - it's probably nothing serious - there's blood in your eye."

"I've been awake for almost two days and I've been drinking and smoking pot all night."

He leans back down. "You're not just bloodshot, there's blood in your eye." And now I'm panicking. Vince tells me to close my eyes and try to relax, and he lifts me up in his arms. All I can do is cry and keep coughing.

A few hours later, my father is standing next to my bed in some hospital's emergency department, holding my hand. They've given me a narcotic - I can't remember which one - that has the marvelous multiple effects of suppressing my cough, easing my neck pain a little, and calming me down. There's a bandage over my eye. I'm sure my father is supposed to be at work, but I'm glad to have him there.

Finally a doctor stops by to do more than just poke and prod at me. She says, "Debra, we don't think there's anything seriously wrong with your eye; you probably burst a blood vessel from the stress of the coughing, and that should heal and reabsorb on its own in a few days. The double vision concerns me a little bit, so we're going to have an ophthalmologist come down for a consult, but it's likely just part of the same trauma."

"What about her neck?" asks my father.

"Well, we ruled out a bunch of things with the X-ray, so I'm going with good, old-fashioned whiplash."

"What?" I squeak.

"It's actually not that unusual to have whiplash outside the car accident arena. It's a soft tissue injury caused by sudden reversal of neck movement, and I've seen it from coughs, from sneezes, even from rough sex." My father clears his throat. "Plus, people with long necks and lower body mass are at higher risk for it, and you're in both categories." I pull the sheet up a little higher over the evening gown I'm still wearing from Sunday night, and I wonder who's got my shoes. The doctor goes on to prescribe rest, drugs, and physical therapy.

"So can I go home soon?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, after the ophthalmology consult, I'd like to admit you. From your X-rays, I'm also pretty sure you have pneumonia, and between that, your neck, and your eye, I think you'd be best off staying with us for a couple of days."

"I thought people catch pneumonia from being in the hospital," my father says.

"Daddy..."

"I'm sorry, what kind of attorney did you say you were?" the doctor quips.

My father smiles gamely. "Trusts and estates. But I have friends."

"Well, I can appreciate your concern, but given your daughter's overall condition I think we're in a better position to care for her than she is to care for herself right now."

"Daddy, I have to get someone to cover my shifts."

"Hush."

It would be the weekend again before I made it home.

It's a busy Saturday night at the Bar. I'm on with Jocelyn and Amy, and Vince is barbacking. Mario is here with his brother Angelo, and they're having a grand old time catching up on their mutual friends and their extended family. I never did get a detailed report on Jocelyn's big dinner with the two of them last month, but I did hear that it went well, and Jocelyn and Angelo are friendly and casual with each other. Given how nervous she was, that's nice to see.

At one point, a newcomer to the Bar makes his way through the crowd at the bar and flags me down. "I'll have a False Start," he shouts.

"I don't know that one," I admit for the first time in months, and I lean forward.

"Oh, it's a great wintertime drink," he says. "A shot of bourbon, half a shot of apple brandy, and the juice of half a lemon in a rocks glass, fill with apple cider, neat."

"That does sound good. Coming right up!"

While I mix, Mario, who's been listening, asks the newcomer why it's called a False Start. He shrugs. "I have no idea. Maybe because football season is good weather for it?"

Angelo says, "There should be other drinks named after penalties. Hey, Debra, I'll have an Offsides!"

"And I'll have a Delay of Game," adds Mario.

Newcomer laughs and quickly joins in. "A Pass Interference, barkeep, and make it a double!" The three men laugh.

Jocelyn, who's passing by with some beers, asks what's so funny, and Mario explains. Without missing a beat, she says, "I'll have a Facemask with a twist," and the men start laughing again.

As I start to hand the newcomer his drink, he invites me to have a taste, so I grab a straw and oblige him. It's good, all right - and even though it's not heated up, it has a warm feel to it. Mario and Angelo quickly include Newcomer in their conversation, and I move off to serve some other customers.

When I return to check on them a little while later, they order a round of False Starts, and it's obvious from his smile that Newcomer feels pretty welcome. A couple of rounds later, I learn that his name is Sean, and he's visiting from Florida for Sunday's Giants vs. Eagles football game, and staying in a hotel nearby. He's from New York originally, and he's been meeting a friend from Philadelphia at the game every year since they graduated from college a couple of decades ago.

"So you fly all the way up from Florida for a football game, and he just has to drive up from Philadelphia?" Angelo asks.

"Not exactly," says Sean. "He moved to New Mexico a while back. I think I have the better end of this deal."

Mario whistles. "That's a hell of a football rivalry."

"It's a hell of a friendship," nods Sean.

There's a loud crash from the back of the Bar near the bathrooms, and Vince goes scurrying to find out what's happened. Before long, we can hear cheering. Vince reappears, carefully guiding a woman with him who's holding something to her head, not walking very well, and - well - half-naked. He steers her off to the back room, where we keep our first-aid kit. A moment later, a small crowd emerges from the back of the Bar, with one man in the front struggling to pull his pants up as he walks. A few men around him are clapping or patting him on the shoulder.

One of the men approaches the bar, and after he orders, I ask him what happened. "Oh, they were getting it on in the ladies' room on a dare, and the stall broke. I think she cut her forehead or something, I'm sure it's nothing."

"The stall broke?! What the hell were they doing?"

He grins. "Do you want a description or a demonstration?" I shake my head in disgust and go retrieve his three bottles of Bud. After he's paid - and left me a massive one dollar tip - I explain to Mario, Angelo, and Sean what apparently happened.

"Dude, sex in a stall in the ladies' room of a bar? That's an Illegal Formation, or at least Illegal Use of Hands," Angelo says.

"He was well on his way to Encroachment," adds Mario, and the men start laughing.

"If she's underage, make it Illegal Receiver Downfield," responds Angelo.

Sean adds, "A gang-bang makes it Too Many Men on the Field."

I decide to try one. "If she's a prude, it could be an Illegal Block Above the Waist." The laughter kind of dies out, and it's clear from the looks on their faces that I didn't quite hit my mark. I shrug. "Spearing?" The men start laughing again, and I smile and wander off to the back room to see if Vince needs any help.

I honestly don't remember if it's state law or just Bar policy, but although we're allowed to drink on the job, we're limited to two drinks per hour. There's a reason for this limit.

Saturday night I'm on an 8-to-close shift, taking over for Jocelyn at 8, and I'll be on with Maya. When I arrive, it's busy, but not terribly so.

Jocelyn can barely keep still. She took an earlier shift tonight because Mario wanted to take her out to dinner with his older brother Angelo, who also lives and works in the city. It was remarkable enough that he told her he loved her when he came back on Halloween, she says; he's never introduced any woman to his family, and his brother is as good a start as any.

"Debra, I feel like I'm going on an interview - everybody keeps telling me to relax, including Mario, but I'm really scared I'm going to say something stupid and blow everything, just when everything is going right."

"I don't know," I say, "I've never been big on meeting the family. I've never had a relationship get that far. At least it's not his parents, right?"

"True enough," Jocelyn nods.

"You want to know what I think?" pipes in Vince, who's been filling the cooler with bottled beer.

"Yes," bounces Jocelyn.

"Right now, Angelo is probably also thinking of it as an interview - he's the older brother, he's probably protective of Mario, and this is the first time a woman's had her hooks in Mario deep enough for him to meet her. So he's skeptical, and he's planning to grill you like roadkill."

"Not helping, Vince!"

"I'm not done yet. That's only right now. The minute he sees you walk into the restaurant, he's going to see your enormous breasts, and he's going to forget all about quizzing you on the finer points of gold-digging. He'll spend the next hour and a half being completely self-conscious, and trying not to say something inappropriate in front of his baby brother."

She laughs. "You think so?"

"Jocelyn, let's face it, your tits are the ultimate ice-breaker." She laughs again and kisses him on the cheek, then finishes cashing out and leaves for the night, her chest preceeding her.

Sometime around 9, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and Maya defers to me, since FBA knows me (and more importantly, knows Warren). I serve them some drinks, and FBA asks me how things are going with Warren.

"I was kind of hoping to ask you the same thing, to tell you the truth," I shrug. "We don't get to see each other very often, but it's good when we do. Has he said anything to you?"

"Hey, listen," he says, "Our guy isn't exactly a master of exposition on matters of the heart, if you know what I mean. But I will tell you one thing, Debra: It's been a couple of years since his divorce, and he told me that you're the first woman he's been on a date with since then. That can't be too bad a sign, right?"

I didn't know that, so I can't help but grin, and wonder silently if I'm also the first woman he's slept with since his divorce. Then I decide that it doesn't matter much, and just like everything else, if he wants to tell me, he will. FBA buys me a couple of fingers of Balvenie for every round he buys himself and his friends, and I drink and tend bar happily.

Or at least I do until about 10:30, when Peter walks in. I'd thought I was done hearing from him after I hung up on his ill-advised booty call a few months ago, but apparently I'd been wrong. He strolls in like he owns the place, and hanging on his arm is a blonde so thin she'd probably snap in a stiff wind, dressed in a midriff shirt, an open leather jacket, and low-rider jeans so tight I'm surprised I can't make out the veins in her thighs. I put on my best "You're not a part of my life anymore, so I don't give a shit" smile, and say, "Hi, Peter - what can I get for you two?"

"Set us each up with some Johnnie Walker Blue, would you please, Debra?" I raise my eyebrows. Johnnie Walker Blue is by far the most expensive Scotch we carry, even though it's not a single malt.

"Really?" Peter's smile shrinks a little bit, so instead of questioning him further in front of his lady, I shrug and go to pour. He's got a gold card in his hand when I return. Peter, who was one year ahead of me in the editorial slave mines at the publishing company where I worked for a year right after college, until taking this job at the Bar, has a gold card.

"Start a tab for me. Pour yourself whatever you like, too, Deb. We're celebrating. It's been a really good few weeks for me."

"Well, thanks, and congratulations!" I say as sincerely as possible, and treat myself to my fourth helping of Balvenie, which, let me tell you, goes down quite smoothly after the first couple. "What are we celebrating, exactly?" I ask when I return to the bar.

Peter looks at Stick the Skank with a "We know, don't we?" shit-eating grin, and says simply, "Suffice it to say, it's been a very good fall." And he just couldn't let it go without coming around to rub it in my face, goes the unspoken part of that story. He holds up his forty dollar glass of blended whisky in a toast, and Stick and I clink with him. My stomach turns a little, and I slurp down half my Scotch in a go.

It's then that Peter sees Former B-List Actor sitting there. "Jesus Christ," he says, "it's that guy who was on [Sitcom]. You're still alive?!" He laughs.

FBA looks up at me - probably for some clue as to what kind of person this is, since it's obvious I know him - and I shake my head and roll my eyes as subtly as possible. Then he turns to Peter. "That's what they tell me. I'm even employed, and allowed out on my own, and cool stuff like that."

"Hey, that's funny," Peter says, then turns to Stick. "Randi, you're too young to remember, but this guy used to be somebody." Wow. Peter was a bit of a jerk after he showed up at the Bar this summer, and I was upset over how our relationship ended three years ago, but I don't remember him ever acting like this much of an ass.

"Peter! That's not nice," Randi the Stick says, showing her first signs of having some sense thus far.

"Hey, he knows I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding, right? Listen, let me buy your next round for you and your friends."

"Thanks, buddy, but I'm fine." In fact at that very moment, I'm sliding him another Jack Daniels Manhattan to replace the nearly empty one in his hand.

"What, you're too good to drink with me? Come on, now you're not being nice." He tips his head toward me. "Debra, put that last one on my tab, okay?"

"I said, thanks, buddy, but I'm fine," FBA says a little more firmly, stopping me in my tracks, and I shrug at Peter. I can't force a customer to accept a drink from someone.

Peter glares at me, then leans in to FBA. "You've got Debra well-trained. You and she...?" He makes a non-descript gesture with his hand that, along with the inflection, is clearly meant to imply I'm sleeping with FBA. I down the rest of my Scotch, and this time, as long as he's being such an ass, I fill my glass to the top, hoping to test just how flush he is. Without really thinking it through, I start sipping from the new glass, too, the burning sensation decreasing with each swallow.

"That's not a cool thing to ask where I come from," FBA says, and then he stands up from his stool. He's not very tall. Peter looks him up and down, and laughs.

"You gonna defend her honor? Is that how things work where you come from?"

Randi pulls Peter's shoulder. "Peter, come on --"

He shrugs it off. "It's okay, honey. I should have told you before we came over here, Debra and I used to be an item, but that was a long time ago."

She looks at me with surprise, then back at Peter. "Really? You were dating a bartender?" What the fuck? Who does she think Peter is?

I throw back the rest of my fifth or sixth Scotch of the night, my head starting to float a little. "No, Randi, I wasn't a bartender at the time, I worked with him at the publishing company. He dumped me because I became a bartender."

Peter turns to me. "Now, hold on, that's not what happened --"

"You're right! You're right, Peter, when you're right, you're right. Randi, he didn't dump me because I became a bartender, he dumped me --" and I look very deliberately at the chain hanging down from her pierced navel, with a few inches of skin visible both above and below it, "-- because he didn't want me showing a lot of skin at work and attracting all sorts of sleazy guys." I stumble a little as I spread my arms wide so that all involved can see that I'm wearing a respectful, button-down black shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't require a crane to put on. Peter's starting to turn a little red.

Randi places one hand on her tummy, palm down. "Really, Peter?"

"Well --"

"And you know what else?" I lean forward and raise my voice, enjoying myself a great deal. "This summer, three years later, he tried to get me to fuck him even though he hadn't changed his mind about my job one goddamn bit. That was in... let me see, late July, I think. So, Randi, just how long have you been seeing our boyfriend here?"

Vince runs over and steadies me. "Debra, come on, be cool."

Peter says, "Hey, Debra, it was for old time's sake, I just wanted us to be friends."

"Friends," I begin, "don't let friends -- fuck assholes. Or something to that effect. Hey, speaking of which! Randi!" I'm practically screaming at this point. "Peter's shy about asking for this, so in case you haven't figured it out yet, he has a lot of trouble coming unless you stick a finger up his ass. Hell, it doesn't even have to be a finger!" FBA covers his mouth, but I can tell he's giggling. Randi von Skankerson pivots and, to the extent one can storm in jeans that have been surgically grafted to your ass, storms out of the Bar. Peter follows her, but not before shoving FBA aside. I turn to jot down my last couple of Scotches on my notes for Peter's tab, and wonder if he'll actually be coming back for the card.

I'm so pleased with myself that I haven't even noticed Todd, the manager, standing next to me. "Debra," he says, "you're drunk. Go home."

"What?! Todd, I had a few drinks, but --"

"Debra, you've had too much, and then you had some more just a minute ago, so it hasn't even hit you yet. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Go home." He hands me a ten for a cab, then starts taking drink orders.

I march off to the back room to get my bag, then I try to walk back through the Bar without catching FBA's eyes. Unfortunately he reaches out and grabs my arm. "Hey, Debra, I'm sorry. I'll make sure your boss knows who started what."

I turn to him and sway a little, tears starting to well up in my eyes. "It's been so long, I hate that he still knows how to get to me!"

FBA nods. "Drink a glass of water when you get home, then get some sleep, it always looks better the next day."

I put a hand on his cheek, and implore him, "Please, please don't tell Warren about this, okay?" He nods. I high-five Bill on the way out the door, and take a cab home, where there's more Scotch.