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by Adam Bender

The two of us arrived at the bar around six, the same time we always did on Friday nights. But by the time I had finished my first beer, Joey hadn’t even touched his Budweiser.

Bro!” I gasped. “What the hell is your problem, bro?”

Joey looked more unshaven than usual and his black hair was an absolute mess of curls. Shaking his head morosely, he said, “I guess I don’t feel much like drinking.”

Don’t feel like—wait, you don’t feel like drinking?”

In all my years knowing him, Joey never once turned down a beer. We’d been drinking buddies since we were five years under the legal drinking age. But there was no explanation I could come up with as to what was bringing on Joey’s depression. He never complained about his job, and sure, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but he still got laid way more frequently than I ever did.

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