Every night, pathetic saps come to this bar
to drown their sorrows en masse. Misery loves company.

He said he was looking for love.

I pulled some of my attention from the burning stick of tobacco and chemicals
held shakily between two callused fingers
and placed it on him.

"I can give vague directions," I told him, smoke drifting from my lips.
He said, "Please, I need all the help I can get."
I watched him take a distraught sip from a deep bottle. "Don't we all?"

"You may want to write this down."
With all the weariness of someone who's been there,
but not done that,
he shook his head. "I'll remember."

"If you're sure. Well, from what I can recall,
it's somewhere in the difference
between 'you and me'
and 'us' or 'we.'
It's with the jokes that aren't really joking
and that lump in your throat that's got you choking.
If you look really hard,
you might find it behind the fact
that with everyone else, you feel alone
and it takes hours and hours
to hang up the phone."

He was musing in that highly philosophical way
that only very, very drunk people can.
"That's all nice,
but your directions aren't very good.
Stay away from tourists."
After midnight,
in a crowded, filthy bar,
this comment seems much more fulfilling to the both of us
than it probably would have if we had been little more sober.
"But how do I know when I've found it?"

I paused to pay for another round of his self-destruction
and deeply inhale my own.
"When you get that special kind of crazy
that leaves you energetically lazy
and you realize you're a dreamer
and then think, 'Well... what's wrong with that?'
you can be pretty sure you're close."

"You sure know a lot about love." Hiccup. "Got a boyfriend?"
"Not since last week." Cough. "You have anyone?"
"Not since this afternoon." Swallow. "S'posed call her when I grow up."
"I'm not supposed to call him at all." Puff. "Ever."

Silence falls,
the amiable silence of two depressed and love-lorn drunks.
Misery loves company.

"You're real pretty." Sniff, scuffle. "Why'd your boyfriend dump you?"
"I'm an unemotional bitch." Inhale, exhale. "You seem nice. What happened with you?"
"I dunno." Gulp, sigh. "She wouldn't tell me."
"She's an emotional bitch."
"Yeah."

We walk out of the building
and set off across the parking lot.

"Where d'you live?"
I point to the left, in the general direction of my house. "You?" He points to the right.

We go straight ahead.

Misery loves company.