2005-08-22 - 12:18 p.m.

h was sleeping soundly on my couch last night while i tossed and turned restlessly in my bed. i knew i should not have had that third cup of coffee. i finally managed to drift off sometime around 3a, only to be woken gently by h at about half past 3.

'hey, sorry to wake you, but i think someone's knocking at your front door.'

i threw on a robe and peeked out onto the street. standing in the shadows, i could just make out the silhouette of the bartender, whom i haven't seen nor heard from in some time.

we chatted for a little while on my stoop. he apologised profusely, explained that he'd been at a party around the corner and was thinking of me. i smelled hard alcohol on his breath and suspected he'd just come from the lounge. he said he'd lost his cellphone and hence my number, and that he had wanted to call many times. he also alluded to possible previous knocking/stalking activities, but he was mumbling and i didn't press him. i gave him my number, a polite hug, and went back inside.

my sleep was still fitful, and by 5:30a when i was still tossing and turning, i decided just to get up and exercise. i've had a disrupted sleep pattern ever since returning from california and have started to walk over the williamsburg bridge almost every morning. taking care not to wake h, i put on sweats, grabbed my keys and slipped out the front door. the bartender was still on my stoop.

there must have been intervening beverages, because he smelled a little drunker. i invited him to join me on a walk, because i didn't want him mooning grimly in front of my loft. after some coaxing i got him to follow me.

clearly in his cups, the bartender began to tell me tales of unrequited love, professional confusion (he's not even a bartender anymore actually), and low self-esteem. i was cranky and restless, losing patience rather quickly with his alcohol-induced depression. i'm a drinker myself, as regular readers surely know, and i'm well-acquainted with the mopey and self-pitying side effects of even the most refined vintages. at the base of the bridge, i told him very delicately to suck it up and go home and get some sleep.

special note to you know who you are: why didn't you tell me you had the extra helmet on sunday? i would rather have breezed through the streets of brooklyn with my legs wrapped around your engine. suddenly shy? inquiring minds want to know.