Charles had the presence of a small-town schizophrenic.

At nine p.m. he jumbo-jetted through the bar’s entrance, touching down next to me. The atmosphere shifted, as if Ted Bundy had stumbled into a slumber party. Everyone gave Charles a look. I tried not to.

He was agitated, his firecracker limbs reacting to every stimulus. ‘Drink?’ ‘Yes, yes, a Guinness!’ He was dressed somewhat shabbily, though not without style: stained tweed jacket wrapped about stout shuffling physique.

The attention on Charles was finally broken when the trivia host declared the next round of questions. She’d accumulated the required motivation to continue. She slid from her seat and sauntered to the bar: ‘Red bull with vodka.’ As the bartender poured, she said Rooound Threee in the microphone in a kind of saline drawl.

The couples resumed their game. I watched them with jealousy; it was Valentine’s Day and I was alone. Alone with my schooner of sadness. Those times feel so different when I look back on them. Now I have a wife and a wonderful family and the colours of cynicism that painted my younger years have undoubtedly faded (my wife would disagree).

It was rainy and windy outside. The wild weather hounded passers-by on the street. Charles wiped his wet hands on his trousers. He sipped his Guinness. I stole another glance at him. He seemed to have calmed, the alcohol having unstrung his tension.