Hold My Beer

My friend Death told me to hold his beer. You do what Death tells you to do. He shifted to the next stool. A woman sat alone sipping her brew.
Death has game. He can charm the whiskers off a walrus. I can hear everything. She is explaining her situation. A bad breakup. He is buying her hard liquor, going to work on her. Death is a good listener, nodding at just the right time.
Death's beer is getting warm in my hand. Fifteen minutes have passed. Their conversation has become animated. She is giggling. I know how this will end. Her name is Lauren. She says something about being expected at her writing group.
Death stands and motions for her to precede him out. She will not be attending any meetings tonight or any other night.
I left his beer on the bar and walked home.