Glen! Glen doesn’t live in Chicago. He likes the Pistons. They’re from another city. Not the first or the second city. Detroit! That’s it. The Pistons are from Detroit. Wait, was Glen from Detroit, or did he just write about Detroit? I couldn’t seem to remember, nor could I figure out why I had started thinking about Glen. Probably the eyes. Those sad eyes. The way they lit up at the basketball game when the Pistons pulled ahead. Boy, did that not last long. The Pistons actually really suck. They did lose the game. Not like the Bulls. The Bulls are from Chicago. They’re from the wonderful blessed city. The perfect city, where everyone winds up. Not me! I’m here. In L.A. With the Lakers. And the beach. And there’s no beautiful blue eyed blonde with me tonight to make that bearable. It’s just me and tequila. I slurped the next couple of shots, the alcohol no longer burning.

I felt the cold counter against my skin. I no longer seemed to be able to hold my head up. I glanced over at the clock on the far wall, but I couldn’t make out which hand meant what and where those hands had been located when I started this little affair with my precious souvenir shot glass. I heard the door close, and I groaned, knowing that I would have a hell of a time explaining to Meredith why all of her tequila had disappeared in one afternoon.

“Jesus, Spence! Are you drunk?”

Yep, that was Madison. Asking the obvious questions. I just kind of looked at her in response, hoping she would find it in her heart to walk away and leave me alone. My head had to stay where it was. At this point it seemed like a law of physics. Newton’s fourth law: Head cannot leave counter.

“You look like shit. Did you already hear the news? Obviously, you already heard the news? Wait how did you hear the news?”