I poured another drink, the ice clinking against the glass like a tiny, frozen gavel, and stared at the empty chair across from me. That’s where he usually sits—the Drunk Philosopher. My internal consultant. The guy who charges by the hour in liver damage and bad advice.
He wasn’t looking for a priest, and he certainly wasn’t interested in a project manager rambling about “risk mitigation.” He leaned forward, eyes glassy but sharp, seeing the entire chessboard while I was still trying to figure out which piece was the pawn.
“Here’s the raw truth, James,” he said, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. “You are doing a burnout lap.”
He paused to let the smoke from his imaginary cigarette curl around the idea. “You are about to leave your entire existence behind. Your job, your house, your country—it’s all getting bulldozed. And this Phoenix girl? She isn’t a future. She’s the grand finale of your American life. You are treating these weekends like a bachelor party for a groom who is marrying himself in Vietnam.”
I flinched. “Is it bad?”
“Bad?” He laughed, a dry, hacking sound. “If you promised her a ring and a picket fence in the suburbs? Yeah, that would be villainy. That would be a felony of the soul. But look at the evidence. She played the ‘husband material’ card on a dating site before you even shook hands. The ‘I love yous’ started on Day One. That tells me she is auditioning for a role just as much as you are. It’s a fantasy, pal. You are providing the lifestyle—the hotels, the drinks, the escape from her minimum-wage reality. She is providing the intimacy. It’s a transaction, whether you signed a contract or not.”
He took a sip of my drink, the bastard.
“So, here is the strategy,” he said, tapping the table with a finger that looked suspiciously like a claw. “You keep the Fog of War thick. You told her you were ‘moving to start over.’ Good. Keep it vague. Keep it misty. If you get specific—if you say ‘I am moving to Da Nang forever on January 31st’—the fantasy collapses. The party stops, and the funeral begins. She will cry. She will fight. She will try to cling to your leg like a barnacle. And you want the sex, James, not the tears.”
“And the exit?” I asked.
” The Fade,” he whispered. “You text her from the airport. Or maybe from Vietnam, once you’ve got a Banh Mi in one hand and a Tiger beer in the other. ‘I made it. Talk soon.’ And then? You slowly vanish. It is the coward’s way out, absolutely. But in this specific scenario, it is also the cleanest. If you say ‘Goodbye forever’ on the 25th, that last weekend becomes a wake. If you say ‘See you later,’ it stays a party.”
He leaned back, satisfied. “Now, the money. You mentioned spending your travel funds on these weekends. That’s the only part that worries me. Every dollar you spend on a hotel in Phoenix is a dollar you don’t have for your startup in Da Nang. But think of it as the admission price. You need to get this sexual energy out of your system. You need to drain the tank. You need to land in Vietnam with a clear head and zero libido so you don’t make stupid decisions over there. If it costs you a few grand to leave America with no regrets? That’s a bargain.”
He stood up, adjusting his invisible tie. “My verdict? Go have your fun on the 16th. Go on the 23rd. Treat it like a movie that is about to end. But do not get drunk and get sentimental. Do not promise to fly her out. Do not tell her the flight number. Enjoy the ride, pay the bill, and get on that plane.”
He walked toward the door, then turned back, a wicked grin on his face.
“Once wheels are up, she is a ghost. And you? You’re just a rumor.”
He left. And I was alone in the room, holding the glass, knowing he was absolutely, terrifyingly right.
The burnout lap begins now.
