“Tell me this is not where you meant when you said we should go out, is it, Tad?”

I’m somehow back at the same fucking dive bar, watching Tad scarf down popcorn. I’m letting him dictate my plans tonight since I pretty much have no clue about life anymore.

“No, of course not, man. What the fuck? I’m not that out of it.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

Tad tips a handful of popcorn into his maw. I’m not sure whether I admire his ability to eat like an absolute fucking pig in public or if I’m appalled.

“Pregaming.”

Right on cue, the handlebar-mustached bartender sets a shot and a pint of beer in front of Tad. He takes the shot without even looking at it, as if he were taking a sip of coffee while reading the paper.

“I could go for some coffee. That’s pregaming, technically.”

Whatever beer Tad ordered must be light, since he drinks half of it in one monstrous gulp.

“They probably have that here—some shitty drip coffee from the kitchen—and they also have some Irish whiskey to go with it. They also have energy drinks and vodka, whatever helps you loosen the fuck up.”

I give the mustache barkeep just the right look to get him to come over.

“Yes, sir,” he greets me, probably ready for a question about local session IPAs or coriander-infused gin cocktails or whatever the fuck kinds of queries he’s used to hearing.

“I need a coffee.”

This sends the bartender into a few seconds of silent chaos as he wracks his brain. He’s trying to process my words.

“Coffee? Sure thing.”

The barkeep whisks off somewhere, and a mix of cinnamon and citrus smells hit me out of nowhere. I swivel to my right and see the culprit—a young woman with wavy brown hair, a form-fitting light-blue dress, and playful eyes.

I pivot to my left, to Tad’s stool, but he’s gone. I go back to looking down at the bar.

“It’s so refreshing to see someone so well-groomed and in shape here, with decent clothes to boot.”

If she hangs out here, she’s probably used to guys sporting stained T-shirts and bushy beards, yammering at her nervously with greasy bar food on their breath and desperation in their eyes.

Jesus Christ.

“Thanks” is all I say as the bartender serves my black coffee, along with an actual box of sugar cubes. You can’t make this shit up.

Just go to a nightclub, lady. That’s what I want to tell her, but I know that I’m going to end up at a nightclub not too long from now, and that’s the last place I want to be right now. I can’t tell someone else to do the same.

I scan the room behind me. Maybe I’m looking for a secret exit.

There’s another woman staring at me. She’s sitting at a table by herself. Her long hair is dyed gradating shades of blue, purple, and pink, falling over her fashionably worn white T-shirt.

I start drinking the coffee black; it’s instant and tastes like fucking garbage.

I take one more look at the dyed-hair girl. Her face is stunning. And as she smiles, her features come alive with a remarkable sweetness—but it all does nothing for me.

“You’re drinking coffee! That’s so cool,” the woman next to me squeals. Jesus, is she for real?

I feel kind of bad for her. She could have any other dude at this bar any night of the week, but she can’t help but zero in on me.

Apparently, I do the same thing. Ironic, right?

An hour later and I’m still sitting hunched over a mug of coffee, except this time, I’m at a club, with a 180-decibel DJ set blaring through the speakers. The huge room is packed wall-to-wall with sweaty, gyrating partiers—people up for a night of intense fun.

Sprinkled somewhere among the crowd are a few of my friends. There’s Tad, as always, and Susan turned up at one point. And there’s Garry from the gym—a young guy suited to these clubs with pulsing EDM and swirling masses of dancing bodies.

Fuck, now they’re releasing fucking bubbles, and they’re getting all over the goddamn place.

I feel two thin, feminine hands gently sweep across my back. What fresh hell is this now?

I turn around to face the crowd and the stacks of speakers and whoever it is who feels compelled to start touching me. There are strobe lights and stupid fucking fog-machine fog making everything hard to see, but there’s a tall, raven-haired woman whose black dress is squeezing her toned stomach and giant fake tits much too tightly.

She is coolly confident, and I couldn’t picture her smiling or laughing, like ever. She’s looking at me with sultry, ravenous eyes straight from some print ad in a glossy magazine.

“Watch out for those bubbles.”

I’ll admit, she has a way of projecting her voice so I can hear it over the music and growing craziness of the crowd. What I can’t place is her accent; it’s maybe eastern European.

“Why do I need to watch out for the bubbles? Nobody else seems to care.”

Fuck, she does laugh—a single, high-pitched shriek of a laugh. It’s nearly sinister.

“They get in your coffee.”

Is this real life? Because what the fuck.

I spot Tad emerging from the crowd behind this weird-as-fuck bubble lady—he’s doing his best to dance, and he points his finger at me. I think he got her to come over.

“Thanks for the pointer,” I tell her, then I turn my back to them both. I could be polite, but the coffee here is really good.

And this is what I’ve been reduced to. Drinking coffee at a nightclub. This was totally my scene—should still be my scene. So why am I not feeling it?

Why am I not finding the first hot girl I see and fucking her up against the wall in a dark corner?

But I know why. I just don’t want to think about her.

I’m not quite finished with my cup when Garry grabs my shoulders, with Tad gesturing emphatically for me to come along. Susan must have bailed, but I go with them, figuring that if I stay out late enough, they’ll be satisfied and stop bothering me with this shit for at least a week or two.

Until we get to the next spot—a big outdoor space with string lights in SoMa—and Tad and Garry have streaks of fluorescent paint and glitter on their faces.

Whatever scene they left behind at the last space, they could probably have a lot more fun tonight without me. Then again, if they want to spend time on this shit, I can’t stop them.

There’s no coffee here, so I finally give in with cheap beer in a red plastic cup. I grimace into the foamy cup.

Fuck. How the mighty have fallen.

“This reminds me of fuckin’ beer pong,” enthuses Garry, making the most of it by chugging the rest of his own beer.

“Sure does,” I deadpan, eyeing Tad talking to a group of women at another table.

Two of them are looking at me already, and after Tad points, they all take in an eyeful. They’re all amazingly attractive and dressed too nicely for a crowded outdoor club.

In another life, where things turned out differently, I’d happily walk over and introduce myself. In that life, I’d be having my pick of which one I wanted to fuck all night. Or maybe I’d take both. They sure as fuck wouldn’t complain.

But in my life right now, where nothing makes sense, I’m beyond ready to just go the fuck home.

“Garry, my friend, it’s been real, but I’m out. Tell Tad thanks. I’ll see him at the gym.”

I don’t wait for Garry to respond. I just vanish through the exit, wondering how the hell I got to this place in my life and if anything will ever be the same again.