Saturday, October 27, 1990. 12:47 P.M.“Um hi. It’s me again. Lou. I…uh…just wanted to apologize for calling you drunk in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have. I don’t blame you if you hate me. What am I saying? Of course, you hate me. I broke up with you after telling you I love you. What kind of asshole does that? Anyway. Sorry. I won’t call again. Sorry.”
* * * *
I listen to both messages when I come home that afternoon. After yesterday’s late shift was over, it was too cold to bike home in the middle of the night, so Shirley, my co-waitress at the bar where I work weekends, offered to let me sleep on her couch, which in hindsight was good, or I would have answered the phone in the middle of the night and ended up with a drunk-as-a-skunk Lou on the other end of the line.
I don’t
