I was at Tom Bergin's drinking. It was Christmas. Three years away from you. No more pain there. No more fun, either. I was with someone else, but he was in Chicago. I was sitting next to a man who said:
I married her when I was drunk and it's been thirty years. Or something.
I said, I'm with someone new, but it doesn't matter, my soul is still attached to the other one. Nothing I can do about that.
The man ordered us one more round and we split it. It was bass ale. I said the problem is he misses me too, but we went to jail and stuff. He raised his glass and we toasted. He said, to love, my dear. We hugged. A full goddamn bear hug, right there.
He said, I didn't talk to someone who loved me for twenty years. She hurt me. I was getting her back.
I pulled out a little blue pill from my pocket and washed it back looking him in the eyes.
What's that?
Valium, want one?
He shook his head, saying: Sometimes no matter how nice you are, they will hate you for something you never get to know about.
Did you ever tell her?
She died. So, no.
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