Serge held the door, but the girl wouldn’t walk inside the coffee shop.
   “I thought we were going to Starbucks.”
   “It’s three more blocks,” he said.  “Plus, this place is locally owned.  I swear, they’ve got great hot chocolate.”
   “You’ve never even had it,” she said.  But at least she walked inside.
   They ordered and sat down at a table by the window.  Double cappuccino for Serge and a mint hot chocolate for the girl.  She hadn’t been happy that Serge’s place didn’t offer hazelnut hot chocolate.
   “This is not real mint.” She pushed her cup away.  “It tastes like chewing gum and Nestle’s Quik.”
   “I’m sorry,” he said.  “They make good coffee.  You want a coffee?”
   She shook her head, looked out at the cars and the gray slush on the street.
   “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I forgot your name again.”
   She sighed.  “Gabriella.  I told you twice already.”
   Mabel still had the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her dark hair.  She had ripped holes into the cuffs and hooked her thumbs through the holes.  Serge took note.  “That’s a good idea,” he said.  “Kind of like a glove, but keeps your fingers free.  You could play the guitar like that, too.”
   “We don’t have to talk,” she said.
   Serge nodded.  “Okay, thanks.  I’ll just drink my coffee.”
   Mabel picked up a copy of Artvoice from the table beside them and thumbed through it while he finished his coffee.  The small shop was empty except for the two of them.  Serge was left to stare up at a photo on the wall, a latte with Che Guevarra’s face depicted in the foam.
   “Do you play the guitar?” she asked.
   “A little.”
   “Could we do that, instead of piano?”
   “You mean lessons?”
   She nodded.
   “Guitar is a waste of time,” he said.  “You’ll just end up playing in a band, and a band is the most insincere thing on the face of the earth.”
   The girl shrugged.  “Fine.  I don’t want to come to your house again, anyway.  It smells like shit.”
   “I thought you said it smelled like cinnamon rolls and beer.”
   “I was trying to be nice.”
   She took the top off the hot chocolate, opened a packet of sugar and dumped it inside.  And then another and another.  After the fourth pack, he told her to stop.
   “You’re wasting it.  The owners have to pay for that stuff.”
   She shook her head, gave him a dismissive look.  “I knew you were an asshole and a drunk.  I bet you need a drink right now, don’t you?”
   He slammed his paper cup on the table and leaned forward.  The girl drew back instinctively.  He caught himself and tried to keep his voice quiet.
   “Don’t say that again.  I don’t get drunk every night.  And I know your name’s not Gabriella.  I was trying to be nice.”
   The last time he’d gotten drunk had been the night of the RITE AID robbery.  He stopped off at the liquor store and bought a fifth of Seagram’s VO after talking to the police.  At home, he spoke to the indignant walls and put a few more holes in them and then Spackled the holes and touched up the paint and vacuumed the carpet.  He pulled out the card given to him by the detective at the RITE AID.  He called and asked if the perp had been arraigned.  Serge wanted to bail the guy out.
   “I’m a little confused,” the detective said.  “Do you know this guy?  Did you have something to do with the robbery?”
   “No, I just feel bad about how I handled him.  I think I may have broken his nose.  I’m pretty sure I felt some cartilage give way.  I’d like to take him to the emergency room.”
   The detective laughed.  “Jesus, dude.  The guy’s a fucking shit stain.  Forget him.  If he needs any medical treatment, he’ll get it.”
   Serge slammed down the phone, flipped it off and yelled, “Fuck you.”  He got in his truck and drove to Wendy’s.  He thought that food might calm him down.  He could bring it back to the house and eat on a plate and then wash the plate.  The Wendy’s parking lot was always a mess, traffic funneled into the drive-thru lane from two different directions.  A pair of signs asked drivers to “Please alternate.”  He’d never had problems before, but a prick in a Malibu cut him off at the drive-thru.  Serge didn’t even think.  He jumped out of the truck, ripped a “Please Alternate” sign out of the ground and pounded it against the Malibu’s windshield.  A big guy in pajama pants and a sweatshirt stepped out of the car and looked like he wanted to say something.  Serge didn’t give him the chance.  He went to work with his hands.  “It says to fucking alternate.”  He hit the man until his arms burned and felt too heavy to lift, and then he stepped back and noticed he was shaking.  He knelt and threw up in the grass and slush.  When he stood back up, the man’s wife was kneeling over her husband, crying.  The man was groaning and holding his nose.  Serge pulled a twenty from his jeans pocket and tried to give it to the woman.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’m really sorry.”  But she wouldn’t stop crying.  He tucked the twenty under the windshield of the Malibu and drove home without a hamburger.
   He was better after that night.  There had been the afternoon at the house with Tamara and then a night spent at her flat while her daughter slept over with a friend.  The first few days working at RITE AID felt like a new life.  He stocked shelves and set up displays with the exactness of a city planner.  Things had gone well, at least until the afternoon of the piano lesson.  He’d left work a half hour early, with Tamara’s blessing, but had gotten a call on his cell phone from Ted, the day manager, telling him he’d be fired if he ever left again without telling anyone.  “Tamara’s not the boss,” Ted said.  “I am.  I don’t give a shit if you’re fucking her.”
   That’s when the wheels left the track again.  Serge called Ted an asshole, told him to go fuck himself sideways, said he was coming to the store right then to kick his ass and ended the call.  He was still shaking when the girl knocked on his door.
   After the go-around over his drinking at the coffee shop, he asked Tamara’s daughter to excuse him.  And then he went to the bathroom and punched the mirror.  When he came out, the barista and a customer stopped talking and stared at him.  Tamara’s daughter only looked at his hand.  He didn’t even realize he was bleeding.  He walked up to her and asked if she was ready to leave.  The girl sprang from her chair and ran out the door.