How many drinks does it take...to forget her? How many? Here I am, sittin' in a crummy speakeasy, plunkin' on my greasy laptop and countin' the minutes that go by while I polish off another glass of scotch on the rocks. I been in this friggin' place too long. Chicago, I mean, not "Denny's". Well, maybe I been in "Denny's" too long too. Hard to say at this point. After awhile everything turns to shit.

I remember the time we had a dance. Me and her. It coulda been a better dance than it was, cos I was under a lotta pressure that night, but it was the only dance we ever had. She was in my arms for a coupla minutes, long enough to smell her perfume and note the softness of her pale skin and the strength in her delicate, long-fingered hands.

She was a real classy dame. The kind that ain't kiddin' when she says, "You're special." She was special. I ain't never forgotten her, not even while I was danglin' out of a 16th floor window, and countin' the seconds between then and eternity.

I'm gettin' old. I saw another buncha grey hairs in the mirror last night. Maybe my time is runnin' out. Where could she be tonight? In what port and in what place will she lay down to sleep tonight?

How many drinks does it take?