"Sam, I've had it!" your girlfriend snaps at you in frustration. "You were supposed to meet me at the Mark an hour ago, and I find you drunk again in this dive. I don't know what's wrong with you but I know I'm not going to be around to find out."

"Lillian wait, I can explain," you start, but she's already turned and stormed out of the bar. You slide off the stool thinking to follow her, but change your mind, knowing it will only result in her yelling at you in the street. You'll call her tomorrow and apologize, you decide, and climb back on the bar stool. The bartender sidles down towards you.

"Broads, huh Tommy," you say to him shaking your head. "Blow up over the least little thing."

"Sure Sammy. You want a fresh one?" You nod and drain the glass in front of you, thumping it back on the bar and wiping your lips. "You might want to ease back a little, Sam," the bartender says as he puts a bourbon and ice in front of you. "You're hittin' it kind of hard today. Want some coffee?"

"Nah, I'm good. Y'know the only thing you get when you give a drunk coffee is a wide awake drunk," you tell him and chuckle at your own comment. He nods and drifts back down the bar.

You sip your drink and stare at your reflection in the bar mirror. You don't look so bad, you decide, lean featured and kind of dashing. Not bad for a guy who just turned thirty one. On the other hand, you decide, your life is kind of a train wreck right now.

You moved to San Francisco a year ago, taking a job as a contributing editor with a small but growing magazine. It was a good gig, and you were doing some fine writing, and even finding time to work on the novel you've been playing with for five years, but six months ago an Atlanta based media conglomerate bought the magazine and moved all the editorial functions to that city. Some of the existing staff were offered jobs, but not you. They gave you two months severance and said thanks and good luck.

Since then you've scrambled along, getting by on some freelance work, but your cash has been dwindling. Of course, you admit to yourself, your drinking has made it dwindle all the faster. To reduce expenses you moved into a studio apartment a few months ago. A small place with a bathroom and tiny kitchen nook, and a Murphy bed that folds down from the wall.

And then there's Lillian. You met her about three months ago at a gallery party. You were there working on a story about the city's art scene, and you were just lit enough to be witty without being a drunken fool. She was taken by your charm and humor and the two of you started seeing a lot of each other. The last month, however, haven't gone so well. You've become increasingly depressed at your situation, and drinking more because of it. You've stood her up a few times, and been too drunk to get it up a few more. Not exactly the way to impress the lady, you tell your reflection, raising your glass in a toast.

Fuck it, you think. Things can only get better. You drain your glass and carefully put it down on the bar.