You and that guy are the last ones in the bar.
“Guess you’re it,” you say.
“Anything you need to know in advance?” he asks.
You shake your head mournfully. He helps you off your stool and leads you to the door.
“What if we end up together?” he says, while hailing a cab. “What if we get married and spend the rest of our lives together. All because we forgot to leave the bar earlier tonight.”
“I don’t think I’d be so great to grow old with,” you say.
“Me neither,” he says. You’re in the cab now. “That’s what I mean. Our fates could have already been decided by my decision to order that one last one a half hour ago, and your decision to wait for your songs to come on the jukebox.”
“That’s weird,” you say, pulling him into a kiss. You take a breath and say, “It’s hard to imagine that I might be marrying you someday. I mean, I feel nothing.” You kiss him again, just to prove that last statement to yourself. You're in your apartment now.
“Think if you make it out of this one without us getting tied down you’ll start drinking less?” he asks you. You’re having sex now.
“Doubt it,” you say. You’re coming now. “I can make all the empty promises I want but I know myself. I don’t know what’ll make me stop drinking, but it certainly won’t be when things work out the way I’m hoping they will. It’ll probably be more like if I get thrown in jail or something. I wonder about that a lot. You don’t get to drink in jail, do you? I mean, you can probably sneak the occasional bottle in, but that’s probably rare. How do they do it?” You’re done coming now.
“Well, whatever happens, you have a real nice place,” he says. He’s getting dressed and leaving now.
“I’ll call you,” you say. He’s gone now.
Only time will tell if you call him or not, like you said you would. If you do and this thing really does work out, at least you have this great “how we met” story to tell your grandkids one day.
Happy Last Call Day!
