One drink won’t fuck up your breath.

Sure it will. I’m no drunk but I’ve had a few drinks in my time. I know.

I bet. He doesn’t say anything more but he’s thinking about it, I can see it in his face. That look that says he’s getting a contact high just talking about drinking. I got the bottle I stole behind me. I feel it against the small of my back. The couple’s still dancing, the sun beating down on them, their long hair sticking to their necks. I remember this woman I met in a bar, The Déjà Vu, in my construction days. She worked at a Pizza Hut and asked me to dance. It was a slow number. A mirror ball turned slowly above our heads, all sorts of colored lights spinning on the floor and covering our bodies with thin hues of pink and purple and green that barely penetrated the dark. I held her, felt her tits on my chest, her waist against my belt buckle, the feel of her back against the palm of my hand. The press of her against me.

Well, if you change your mind, I say, and lean to one side and show him the bottle.

No thanks.

OK. You can sit down.

I don’t know.

OK.

I’m not drinking.

You can sit. No one will smell sitting on your breath.

He gives me a smirk, lowers himself to the ground, and crosses his legs. The band stops playing and exits the platform. I watch the couple return to their blanket. They don’t seem to notice the missing wine. She unzips a shoulder pack and takes out two plastic bags with sandwiches, and then she works her hand around inside it and removes a bag full of grapes. After handing the guy a sandwich, she takes out two glasses, looks left and right, and frowns. She says something to him and they get up and turn in circles, staring down at the blanket. OK, they’ve noticed now. I don’t want them to see me watching them, so I stop staring. I can’t resist though, and after a second or two I shoot a sidelong glance in their direction. Looks like they’re arguing, probably blaming each other for forgetting the wine. I feel sort of bad about that, but not too bad.

You sure you don’t want a drink?

I wouldn’t mind one, but what’ve I been telling you? I can’t.

More for me.

The guy smiles.

You know what they say.

What? the guy asks.

I don’t know. They say a lot of things.

He laughed.

You’re crazy.

Yeah, maybe.

I really want to get to work again, he says. I had a maintenance job at a country club in Walnut Creek, but I got laid off. I’ve been driving for Uber and Lyft but that doesn’t pay the bills. So I gave up my apartment and started staying in my car. I got to tell you when they put me in detox and I laid out in a real bed after weeks in my car—well, it was a cot, but you know what I’m saying—and I could stretch my legs, oh, man, did it feel good.

What kind of car?

Honda Civic.

Little thing.

Tell me about it.

I’m going to drink.

Do your thing, bro.

I reach behind me for the bottle. A new band has come on. A man growls out the Johnny Cash tune “Folsom Prison Blues.” The couple lean against each other like nothing else matters. That’s nice, I think. Good for them. It’s only a bottle of wine. I don’t feel anything about taking their wine now. Everything’s worked out. They can get another one without thinking. I can’t. The guy with me watches the couple too. Or maybe he’s just looking in their direction; I don’t know what’s going on in his head. That Pizza Hut gal kissed me on the cheek when we stopped dancing. Thank you, she said and went back to her table and the girls with her. I stood like a dumbass in the middle of the floor beneath the disco ball. I should’ve gone after her, but I wasn’t drunk enough to hit on her. By the time I was, she was gone. I wonder what would have happened if she and I had dated. I’d’ve taken her to a movie and a restaurant and shit like that. I’d’ve fucked with her, absolutely, but there’d be nights I’d sneak off to the bars. I was a drinker even then. I can hear the arguments we’d’ve had. I had them with other girlfriends. I’d’ve fucked it up like I did with them.

What you got there? the guy asks me.

I look at the wine label on the bottle.

Zinfandel, red.

You got the good shit.

Yeah.

No Thunderbird for you.

You know Thunderbird?

Oh, yeah. Those nights in my car, yeah. You hit the lottery.

Just got lucky.

It’s a corked bottle, not a twist-off. Like the guy said, This is the good shit. Searching the ground, I take a stick and press it against the cork inching it down until it drops into the bottle spurting wine. I scooch back to avoid the geyser. Raising the bottle to my mouth, I drink, spit out bits of cork. Sweet, but not as sweet as Thunderbird. That’s pure sugar compared to this. I take another hit. A warmth spreads through my body, rises to my head, expanding before it settles like a quilt and fills me with quiet. I close my eyes. This is what love feels like, I think, sinking deep into it. After a moment, I let out a deep breath, cringe at the pain in my chest. That brings me back. I open my eyes and raise the bottle toward the guy.

You sure?

He shakes his head.

All yours.

C’mon, man. One swallow. Won’t kill you. When do you have to be back?

Five.

Plenty of time. Get something to eat and you’ll be fine.

With what money? he asks.

Dumpster dive, I say.

No way am I digging in trash for food. I’m not there yet. They’ll have some soup in detox.

I hold the bottle out to him. He stares at it, shakes his head again.

C’mon.