When friends fail you, you still have to love them. Especially when they cannot tell you that they love you.

Ray sat on my porch railing throwing cigarettes into Molly’s planter. The sun had gone down enough so that it wasn’t in my eyes anymore, but just dappling the floor. The dogwood trees on the devilstrip were in full bloom.

And Ray and I had just finished work. He took the bus home from work, as he often does, instead of letting me give him a ride,

Ray is smart and funny and goodlooking. Some would say Ray was smart and funny and goodlooking, once. But I know it is in his essence. His drinking has obscured that for many people for over two decades. But I see glimpses of it on occasion. And I still love the old boy.

He took the bus home so that he could stop at Red’s and I smelled it on him.

Now he leaned on my porch rail remembering the days he and I would take over downtown. He told me he remembered when I met Molly. At Red’s, as it happens. When I met Molly, I stopped going to Red’s, but Ray had a tab there of almost two hundred dollars per month. He still goes to Red’s.

Now he sat on my porch, and I listened to him rambling. When your friend is a drunk, sometimes the only way you can show him that you love him is to listen to him when he talks.

So I put down my newspaper and sipped from my tea. And listened. And he talked. He loosened his tie and ran his hand through his now white hair and talked until Molly came out and told us that dinner is ready.

Ray’s wife, Virginia, had died several years ago, so it often happened that Ray sat down to dinner with us. And when I held the screen door open for him, he saw a martini on the table where he often sat. When he saw that, he told Molly that he loves her. And I believe it.