Mark came over the following day to vent about his break up. Every topic bounced between his ex and his overbearing mother, like conversational ping pong played by one. His drinking was getting worse too. He kept producing little glass bottles of brandy from his vest pockets, his pants, his European-style man purse. 

"Want one?"

I gave him an empty gaze. 

Mark had an interesting way of drinking. He took tiny little sips like someone tasting wine, letting it coat his mouth before swallowing. I couldn't see the appeal of the lingering flavor of check out line Brandy for alcoholics and bums. The sips seemed so minute that the level of liquid never appeared to change between sips. But after just thirty minutes of complaining, there were already three empty bottle clinking together on my coffee table. Zeno's paradox of infinite sums came to mind, an echo from high school algebra that I never fully grasped. It was the kind of topic Sara would have explained like a school teacher to me, sitting across a restaurant table and taking large gulps of red wine, with her eyes floating up to the ceiling as she pontificated. God, I missed her endless chatter. Her memory still had sharp edges that cut when I held them in my mind. It was hard to accept that she left for greener pastures when I was stuck in the same old place.

"You're still thinking about Sara, aren't you?" Mark let another empty bottle fall musically into his proud little pile. 

"I'm worried about my liver," I stared at the bottles.

"Forget Sara. You'd meet someone better if you ever left this shithole. You should hit the gym with me. The confidence boost alone will draw women to you like flies to shit." He had just read some self-help book for men that still need their masculinity coddled. He went on to explain how I needed to "manifest an aura of stoic serenity" and "display traits that activate evolutionary psychological programming in women." He burped.

I had just taken some of my pills and the side effects were kicking hard. The room spun, but I knew it would pass. 

"Have you ever heard the expression 'swallowing one's words'?" I asked mark.

"It's swallowing one's pride. You eat your words," he let another bottle drop into his crystal refuse pile. 

We didn't talk for a while as the pills took effect. The waves of anxiety receded. My mind was now at a gentle and placid low tide. I thought about Sara. Her intelligent eyes and shark smile. The way she always opened the window after we had sex and stood naked, staring outside. The thoughts were only ripples on the still surface, no longer violent breaking tsunamis. Thank God for modern pharmaceuticals. 

"So you're gonna come out with me?"

"I can't, Mark."

"Come one, I have more of these," he pulled out five little bottles of brandy, still full with liquor, and spread them on the table. "Just drink one and see how you feel. It's my birthday celebration."

"I'll just be a drag. You guys won't want me there."

"Don't do this. Just come man, I'm sure we'll meet some new girls. We've only got this year till we're thirty. Don't waste it. Sieze the day. Who said that?"

"No one who mattered," I responded.