by Chris Fletcher

Created on: October 31, 2008

I'm too drunk to think straight.

This would only be an issue if I had some sort of problem that needed solving which, I sluggishly think to myself, I do.

Where I am, I can smell cigarette smoke and stale beer. The muffled rumblings of a few hundred people having a good time vibrate up through the floor, invading the cramped staffroom where I sit mercifully alone. Between them and the jukebox, my feet are buzzing slightly.

One of the dangers of bartending in a local pub is that you tend to go to work even on your days off, hanging around and pumping your pathetic paycheck right back into the establishment that hired you. And if the other staff members are friends, you are almost honor-bound to come by.

Another danger is that, when you drink too much, you cannot escape the blurred memory of your abhorrent behavior. Your friends know, your boss, your customers.

Right now, I'm not thinking of this. I'm wondering what to do next.

I am slumped on a dilapidated couch that buckles in the middle, the canvas upholstery mildly greasy from constant use. I think it was blue at some point, but now it's just a couch. The ashtray should have been emptied a week ago, and my dancing vision sees patterns in the coffee rings on the table.

My glass is empty. Brown streaks of foam slide lazily toward the rancid mouthful abandoned at the bottom.

To pour a good pint of Guinness, you cannot have clean pipes. The beverage needs a rocky terrain of yeast build-up to agitate it on the trip from barrel to tap. If your Guinness tastes thin and crisp, it came from a clean line.

I sit forward, bracing elbows on knees, and cradle my face in my hands.

I am thinking, why tonight?

Three hours ago, Stephanie and I had gone to dinner at an embarrassingly expensive restaurant. She always liked to celebrate the smallest of anniversaries and, since today marks six months together, we had dressed up and ventured out.

Reservations were needed weeks in advance, so it had been something we both were anticipating.

I had barely opened the wine menu. Not even thought about the food yet.

"I've been sleeping with Martin for a month," she said.

No build up. No preparation. She just stated it simply, as if complimenting the dcor.

For Guinness, always use a clean glass. If a customer insists on using their previous one, tell them they can pour it from the fresh glass into their own afterward.

I didn't blink for a while after that. I closed the menu, straightened my tie and tried to find something to say.

"Well?" she said. "Say

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