Stranger Arms

8:03 PM

"I'm really, truly sorry," says Wendy. "Please don't hate me."

The phone in Eric's hand trembles as he holds it to his ear. He plucks out a piece of lint from his blue jeans, and he has the urge to puke all of a sudden. "Don't worry about it. I guess... I don't know. I guess I was kind of hoping it'd really be over this time."

"That's what I thought, but I think this last break up was the wake up call he needed. He wants to make a change, and I need to be there to help him, you know?"

Eric doesn't understand why such a nice girl like Wendy would ever give her scum of a boyfriend another chance. I guess good guys really do finish last.

"Maybe when this whole things blows over we can all get together. I can set you up—"

Pity. Disgusting. "Eh, that's alright."

He runs his hand down his tired face. He was looking forward to seeing Wendy. Now, all he wanted was to be alone to lick his wounds.

Wendy's plea is painful. "Okay. I'm really sorry. I hope you didn't go through so much trouble."

"Don't worry about it. I'll see you at work on Monday."

"Okay. Have a good weekend."

"Bye."

Eric presses the red button on his phone. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he bought a couple of expensive New York steaks for the occasion and that he spend hours on YouTube learning how to cook them properly to impress her.

He even did extra reps at the gym to make his chest look bigger. But now, as he sits in his car outside of the gym, a mere hour before what was suppose to be their date, he feels weak and empty.

He drops the phone on the empty car seat besides him and sighs. What a rotten disappointment. What was suppose to be an evening of steak, homemade peach cobbler, and funny movies turned into another distant daydream.

He looks out his car window. Sure, the evening is young, but what plans did he have now?

He considers calling the guys and ordering pizza, but doing so would only make a ceremony out of his date standing him up. And the guys wouldn't let him live that down.

There was always the sports bar down the street from his apartment complex, but how could he risk people from work finding him there and seeing him with a drink in his hand? That wouldn't be smart, specially when he constantly rattles about health and fitness and keeping his body free of toxins.

Tonight, he wants to be a hypocrite. He wants to get drunk.

With nothing left to lose, he puts the key in the ignition and turns it, bringing his Toyota Corolla to life.

Alcohol hadn't touched Eric's lips since graduation. He almost didn't remember the taste. But he knows where to get it.

His car takes him to the convenience store, half a dozen miles from the youth center, where he was sure he wouldn't run into co-workers.

He parks the car right beneath a large banner that reads Ice Sold Here.

He doesn't even know what he wants. Some malt liquor, maybe. No, this was a night for cheap beer, mixed nuts, and watching late-night infomercials with his hand down his pants.

For now, he walks into the store with his hands in his pockets. First stop is for the mixed nuts, the ones that come in bags, not tin cans.

Tin cans are for grandpas.