The bar was bright and not too busy. Thursday nights were usually quiet, especially when wintery snow flurries swirled in the cones of phosphorent yellow cast by the street lamps.

Rosemary grabbed a seat at a raised table, perching herself on a high barstool. She was cute, had a unique sense of style, had a wisdom greater than mine. It was only our second date and I was nervous. I had abandoned work early - I would pay for that in the bosses office tomorrow - and faced a wardrobe crisis trying to find a sweater both stylish and warm. Worse, I had no words, conversation being lost art.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked, buying myself some time.

“Rum and coke, please.” I was immediately put in mind of the Pulp song “Common People” and couldn’t help but draw parallels with my own fledgling relationship. A boy who worked in a warehouse, a girl between semesters studying art history.

“That sounds good,” and I headed to the bar. My plan to come up with witty repartee, anecdotes of good times passed, and sincere compliments was dashed by imaginings of touring Rosemary through council estates and cheap supermarkets, living a romance that only exists in songs and Sunday afternoon movies.

Returning with the drinks I clambered awkwardly onto the stool. Rosemary smiled in thanks and gave a half laugh, looking down to fidget with an imagined thread on her skirt.

The air between us was thick with empty space waiting to be filled with some kind of connection beyond the instant, alcohol-fueled fumbled meeting of lips in a nightclub almost a week ago.

I realized my mouth was immediately so dry that any attempt to speak would only sound like a series of arid clicks and smacks. I lifted my drink, feeling the ice cold glass on my lips. The drinks were light on mixer and the rum burned my throat on the way down, a stranger to hard liquors.

Was this how he felt every time? How did he do it, drinking pint after pint, neat, and not immediately throw up from the taste alone? Or after a while would the burn subside and future glasses go down as smooth as in the movies, all those hard drinking men knocking back shots of whiskey and vodka, sipping brandy and fine wines.

I thought back to the previous night, sinking pints of lager in a pub with my stepdad. Drunk but happy, shoveling handfuls of salty snacks to absorb the booze.

And the day before that, grabbing a couple of bottles with Tom, Dutch courage before meeting with Rosemary for coffee at a bookstore.

Monday was the pub quiz, so of course I had to have a beer or two then. Everyone else was drinking and I didn’t want to be the odd one out.

Sunday lunch in a beer garden with the folks, washed down with a pint or two.

Saturday night was boys’ night at Tom’s. Cards, gaming, beers aplenty, and someone brought some weed. A combination that led to projectile vomiting in his back yard and embarrassed apologies on Sunday morning.

Friday was the club where this little journey all started. Watching some unknown band who’s name is lost to the mind fog of an old man, meeting this very cool and sweet woman, a friend of a friend of a friend, my clubbing buddy Neil having to keep himself entertained while Rosemary and I tentatively swapped saliva and phone numbers.

Was it too much?

Did I know how to have fun without it? Could I ever?

Would this carry on, drinks to be more sociable, to deal with a bad day, to celebrate? Then because there was a football game on TV, because it is a sunny day, because why the hell not and who are you to tell me otherwise you stupid bitch! Get in that bedroom, we’re going to do things my way for a fucking change. I can do what I want, I can drink when I want, I can stop when I want. But guess what? I don’t want to, I don’t want to.

I don’t want to.

“What’s up, you look miles away?”

“I think I might be an alcoholic.”

There wasn’t a third date.