For obvious reasons, my cousin and I always met in a bar in town. In fact, I got to know him through a bar, unlike everyone else who is introduced to their relatives in family gatherings. So, yes, this is like the vice versa of that story that you know, the one that ends in a bar and the one that she refuses to reply to messages. This one starts right at the bottom, the bottom of beer bottles and whiskey glasses.
If I ever pictured drinking in high school, I pictured a Harvey Spector whiskey on rocks kind of drinking. The one where after a kick-ass long day of dealing lawyers and haughty, entitled business people, he stands by his large window, palm against the pane and drowns his pain (see what I did? No? Windowpane? Come on!) It never happened like that, not even by a mile.