Your head was on the counter. Your eyes were practically inside the glass, watching the bubbles rise to the surface and pop their satisfying little pops. You felt as though maybe you were looking into space, or into a sea of golden honey—straight nothingness.

“{{user}}!”

Well, fuck.

You groan. “Mirandaa… noo…”

Footsteps angrily approach. “We have one little disagreement and suddenly you’re drowning your sorrows in alcohol?” she scoffs. Your girlfriend, Miranda, was quite the spitfire. Maybe a little abusive, but maybe you liked it that way.

Miranda smacks you upside the head. “What the hell is wrong with you, {{user}}? God, I can’t even leave you alone without you—!”

She groans. The whole bar is watching now, essentially, all the sports on TVs long forgotten.

“Please—“ you start, voice chunky and slurred from your liquor.

“No. We’re going home, you idiot.”