Condensation drips down the side of his glass, a ring of water forming on the bar counter, and he's wondering why the drink that is supposed to make him forget only makes the memories more vivid because he's thinking about her and wishing he wasn't; thinking about the curl of her perfect golden hair, how it disappeared around the frame as she slammed the door and left him alone in the dark of their apartment.
And he's thinking about this bar, their bar, and trying to remember all the times he's sat at this counter with her as the reason, and he remembers her perfect smile the night they first met, and the shine of her eyes the night they actually met, because there are certainly a lot of times if he's honest and maybe he could count them all if he was a bit more sober.
In the beginning, he was drunk for her, that he knows. Drunk for confidence and that British swagger he played up after a beer or five. Later, he learned that was on purpose, that the Intoxication Initiative was necessary to begin the gaining of information and the finishing of the job. But that was the night he'd first gotten her to dance with him and he likes to think that was a positive outcome.
There were plenty of times he was drunk with her, too, because she always bet the guys she could drink them, and hi specifically, under the table, and he can only remember one occasion where he may have won on a technicality. But there were times after long work weeks or loud fights, or on late nights when one of them would wake up shaking and crying and continuing to deny that PTSD might be a thing, the way to numb the pain was by bottle, and they drank together because that was marriage: it was better and easier to cope with someone you loved by your side.
And now he's drunk because of her, lazily slumped against the bar and pushing a torn up straw wrapper back and forth in front of him. He's drunk because she says she's leaving, because he's afraid this time might be for real, and he doesn't know what else to do but drown himself in forgetting.