Roger groaned for the sixty-ninth time since the wild night had begun. Not that he had kept track of how many times he had groaned, of course. Usually, on nights like this, he was usually downright drunk, and saying and doing things that he would regret later. But tonight, he was the only one sober left.
He chanced a glance around the bar and quickly wished he hadn't. Mimi was passed out at a table and Mark was engaged in an animated conversation with her about the fact that he couldn't hold an erection on high, holy days. Collins appeared to be having fun humping the bar stool and chatting to it aimlessly. Joanne was flirting quite shamelessly with one of the waitresses and had just leaned in for a quick smooch. Maureen…where was she, anyway?
"POOKIE!" came the shriek in his ear. Roger jumped, deafened, and turned. "Maureen, what the fuck?" She grinned lopsidedly at him and giggled, clinging to the table for support. "Hey, pookie, looking good, baby. Wanna take this to the bed?" Roger shook his head as she tried to lean in for a kiss, misjudged the distance by about five inches, and flopped onto the table.
"Come on, pookie. Don't be a spoilsport." Roger rolled his eyes. "You've never called me pookie before, why start now?" Maureen pouted. "You're no fun. You're just like Joanne, honeybear, pookie…" She trailed off into meaningless nonsense, still giggling insanely. Roger let his head drop onto the surface of the table. This had to be a nightmare; any moment now, he'd wake up in the loft and laugh it off with Mark. He closed his eyes and reopened them to find…that nothing had changed. He was still in the bar, the only sober one, and Maureen was still laughing her head off beside him. Only now she was staggering around the table talking. "Pookie, give me a kiss. Come on, pooksum." Roger cringed. "Pooksum? That's worse than 'pookie!' What're you trying to do, drive me insane with all these horrible names?"
"But pookie!..."
Roger pushed her gently away. "Look, you and Joanne are meant for each other. Don't ruin your relationship by doing something you'll regret later." Maureen frowned and Roger swore he could see the gears squeaking in her head. A few moments later, she grinned and nodded. "You're right, pooksum. I'm gonna go find Joanne…" She started off, bumping against the tables, when she turned and smiled. "You know, you're not too bad. It's too bad you're not like me." She giggled again and started stumbling away. Roger turned the thought over in his mind. Him like Maureen? That wouldn't even remotely be funny; that'd be plain scary.
Suddenly, in his ear: "BUT pookie…" Roger groaned for the seventieth time (again not keeping track, ' course). It was going to be a long night.