Disclaimer: I do not own Chris Jericho or anything else pretaining to World Wrestling Entertainment. I am just a fan; and I am not profiting from writing this peice.

What the hell was he doing here? Chris knew that this evening would inevitably end in disaster; especially when Reso was involved. Jay loved playing match-maker. The only problem was that he was horrible at it. He seemed to have it in his head that Chris preferred dim-witted, manufactured blondes; thus, for the last year or so, Chris's blind dates had been tall, buxom blondes with IQs to match their limited, pubescent vocabulary. Half of these women peaked at slightly average on the standard bell-curve while the other half were under the assumption that Canada was one of the fifty states.

Chris sat, impatiently drumming his fingers against the silk tablecloth.

His date was late...half an hour late.

That was a first. Tonight had been full of firsts. This was the first time he had actually decided to wait it out. (Usually, if she wasn't front-and-center at Reso's appointed time, he left.) This was the first time anyone had dared to stand him up. Not that he minded being stood up; it was usually the wasting of precious milliseconds of sleep that aggravated him. Having his at-bed-by-1-AM-and-up-again-at-5-AM schedule was torture on his body. When he took time out of that important downtime to meet a random stranger in an elegant restaurant, he couldn't help expecting a little common courtesy on said stranger's part.

"Can I get you anything else, Chris?"

Speaking to customers informally was frowned upon by Rosalind's manager, but Chris was somewhat a regular at her table. He was in Alonzo's twice a week, every couple of weeks; so the two often exchanged pleasantries before his latest flavor of the week found her way to her seat.

Chris looked up at her, flashing those million-dollar pearly whites.

"No thanks, Rosalind."

"Are you sure?" She held up the pitcher of water in her right hand.

"I'm sure." He smiled at her again.

Rosalind couldn't help blushing. She always blushed when he looked at her that way. Every time he smiled, an enthralling warmth echoed in those deep blue eyes. Rosalind was certain that he was the reason for the polar ice caps melting. However, as the saying goes, "Her momma didn't raise no fool." Chris was a thirty-something divorcée, with three kids, two mansions in two different countries, and a solidified upper-level slot in the hierarchy of Hollywood. Having a successful professional wrestling career and a well-established music career, coupled with his playboy good looks, proved to be a deadly combination.

"I guess that's it then," Chris gave a sigh as he downed the last of his water. "If you could just bring me the bill, then I'll be on my way."

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

"No problem." Rosalind offered a weak sympathetic smile as she took his credit card and placed it inside the bill presenter tucked in her black apron.

She paused a moment. It seemed like she had something she wanted to say, but then decided against it and trotted off.

Chris leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples with his thumb and index finger. The humiliation. The utter humiliation. Sure, Jay was trying to be the helpful best friend, but he wasn't the one going through the public shame, was he? No. Though he wouldn't exactly put this night into the I-want-a-divorce-via-text-message category, this had to be in his top-five most embarrassing moments.

Rosalind gently placed the folded bill presenter in front of Chris. He looked down at it a moment or two, then opened it, signed the restaurant's copy of his order, and took his credit card from the inside pocket.

Even though Alonzo's always calculated the tip, Chris habitually left Rosalind a generous tip.

He dipped into his wallet once more and pulled out two crisps fifty-dollar bills.

"Thanks," he said, holding the bills between his index and middle fingers.

Rosalind hesitated.

"You've earned it," Chris insisted. He dropped the tip on the table once he realized she was still having difficulty taking what was rightfully hers. He took one last sip of water.

"See you in a couple weeks?" Rosalind asked, almost whispering.

Chris grinned in approval as he watched her slowly tuck the money into her apron.

"You bet."

***

Chris had shed his jacket and his tie. He was sitting in his Camaro, in Alonzo's parking lot, with his window cracked, and smoking a cigarette. He had two reasons for stalling: 1) His ex-wife had the kids this week, so he would be coming home to a large empty house. 2) Jay would make the usual phone call in a couple hours to ask how the date went.

With nothing better to do, Chris finished his cigarette and decided to drive around Odessa. He had been living in Florida for quite a while, but due to his tight schedule, he didn't exactly have time to go sight-seeing...not that he would be able to see much at eight-thirty at night. He reasoned that he could do like most people and wander aimlessly around the local Wal-Mart, seeing as it never closed.

Chris snorted at the thought.

No...What he needed was a good stiff bourbon on the rocks. Where, oh where were those comforting neon lights of a bar?

On this side of Odessa, there were only two bars that stayed open until the wee hours of the morning. Chris knew them both well, because he had been three sheets to the wind in one or the other at some point in time. The bartenders were pleasant, and the fans tended to let him be. The only people in those bars were the heavy drinkers.

WES NILE's was the closest bar to his home. If he was too intoxicated before the night was up, he would have a shorter driving distance and a lesser chance of being pulled over by police.

"Hi-ya, Jericho," Wes greeted from behind the bar. He threw up his tattooed arm and gestured for Chris to come in further. He looked over at one of his regulars sitting at the bar. "Hey, Joel, give my man a seat, huh?"

Joel complied, pushing a comatose Dave out of the seat beside him.

Dave toppled over with ease and hit the dirty wooden floor with a thud, but he still didn't wake from his stupor.

Chris paid no mind to him as he stepped over him and took the vacated seat.

"The usual?" Wes asked as he reached behind him for a bottle of his best bourbon.

Chris nodded. "You might want to consider leaving the bottle on this one."

Wes grimaced.

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea."

Wes grabbed a clean glass, set it on the bar, and dropped several ice cubes into it.

"Did this one at least know her multiplication tables?" he joked, pouring Chris his first round of bourbon.

"Probably not, but that's just speculation," Chris answered, downing the drink in one gulp. "She didn't show up."

"Eh," We said with a shrug, as he poured more drink into Chris's glass. "It's probably for the best, man."

"Absolutely," Chris nodded in agreement.

"Women ar' trouble...not worth fighting for," Joel slurred as he leaned against Chris's shoulder. "The pool boy cleaned leaves outta my leaf trap...man. Then he stole my leaf trap...women...suck."

Chris eyed Joel, who was grinning at him, as if he had just made the most profound statement in the history of mankind.

"I'm not entirely sure about what you said, but what the hell? I'll drink to that."

Joel howled with laughed, clumsily clanking his beer bottle against Chris's glass.

Chris stopped drinking after his third glass of bourbon. He hung around the bar for a couple hours, chatting with Wes, and waiting for his slight buzz to subside.

"Where you heading? Do you need me to call you a cab?" Wes asked as Chris stood up to leave. "You were hitting the bottle pretty hard tonight, man."

"No. I'll be all right. I think I'll go do a little shopping."

"At ten-thirty?"

Chris nodded, threw a stack of twenty dollar bills on the bar, and turned to leave.

"Keep the change."