Yesterday, I sat with BA Bima, a small wooden table between us. Bima swirled his coffee-coloured liquor before gulping it down, wincing at the burn.

“Are you going to tell me why you called me here?” I inquired.

“Drink first,” he urged, sliding my glass closer with his fingertips. “You will need it.”

Already indulging in smoking and drinking directly from the bottle before he called and asked for my presence, I obliged. I saw that his misery needed company, so I swirled the liquor and took a sip.

“All of it,” he insisted, refilling our cups unevenly.

Picking up his glass, he sighed, “It is my wife,” averting his gaze. “She's like a sex freak. Always wants it.”

Smirking, I recalled dating his wife as an energetic young man. Then, I matched her energy but now, grey hair outnumbered the black strands on my head, and if not for the alcohol, the pain in my waist from sitting would be worse. Aside from all that, my firmness was flabby. 

“You knew how she was,” I said, allowing my lips to curve in a smile. “You knew and you went on.” I ended with a little shrug, sipping in the process.

“It's worse now. Like, every time,” he confessed.

“So… you give it to her. Your problem is every young man’s dream.”

“That's the thing, I'm not a young man. I am an old pa!”

Laughter echoed between us.