She tells him he is on the brink of failure.
He rolls his eyes and says, Tell me something I don't know, love. It's been the story of my life.
He picks up his pint, drains it and plonks it down on the counter.
Do you want another one? she asks.
Would you serve me if I did? he replies.
She looks at him. He knows what he looks like: older than he should be, greying hair, yellowing skin, bloodshot eyes, and a scar across his face, where he fell over in the toilets the other week.
Probably not, she says.
Then, I'll go, he sniffs.
He pulls on his coat, slaps some money on the bar, not bothering to ask how much it is: he knows, he always orders the same thing, and the prices haven't changed in years. One of the reasons he drinks in this shithole.
Night, love, she says, as the bar door kisses his arse on the way out.
It is damp and cold out. He sniffs again, pulls his coat around his neck and stomps his way home.
...
El hombre hasta cierto punto fue inteligente, en cambio la mujer ya borracha de tanto tomar, quedó en pena y en ridículo, muchas beses eso pasa cuando las personas beben mucho no se dan a respetar. Me gusto mucho tu historia.
The man was intelligent to a certain extent, but the woman, drunk from drinking so much, ended up looking shameful and ridiculous. That often happens when people drink too much; they lose respect for themselves. I really liked your story.