“I don’t drink anymore,” he says, in a voice as proud yet weary as the veteran’s. His beard is coiffed and permed, his t-shirt ironic, and his combat boots sport the sheen that boots do when they have never seen turf sandier than an English beach. Explosions and shrapnel fly behind his eyes. He is the warrior, fighting the good fight of faith, First Commander in the chemical warfare of the liver.
“I don’t drink anymore.” And he says it loudly and clearly for all those in the bar to hear, catching the whisky-coloured eyes of the bespectacled, tattooed bartender, whose soul is surely condemned for simply holding the pint glass between his fingers.
His counterpart, mind, won’t be found in the seedy leather chairs of the nightly bar. No, and how foolish to suggest it. Instead she sits in the much classier – although equally uncomfortable – leather chair within the confines of her home.
“Bars and clubs aren’t my type of thing,” she says, moving her glasses up the bridge of her nose, like soldiers advancing to cross the Bridge of Noble Solitude. “I much prefer a good book.”
The battle of wits, she will argue, is preferable to the battle of the hangover, which is as cold and as common as – well, the common cold.
But when the camera pans left, and the Third Person is somewhat less omniscient, she returns to an online game of Solitaire.