The only thing we could do was sing and dance to death and heartbreak

Frank studied the suds that had collected in the bottom of his mug. Each frothy bit was a speculative thought on nothing, on futility, on himself. He was a former cop. A former husband. A former father, and perhaps a former human being, although sometimes the mangled corpse in his chest that passed for a heart would find it in itself to warm.

Tonight was a particularly lonely night. Frank sat alone at the bar, with nothing but a frosty mug to keep him company. Normally Mick joined him for a drink in the dying hours of the day. Mick seemed to be perpetually on the rocks with his wife. While his whining was sometimes irritating, Mick was a good sort of fellow, and despite the tears in his beer, he drank as well as the next guy, and Frank was always grateful for the company.

However, something happened the week before that had changed the usual routine. Mick came in one night with a steely gleam in his eye, and a spring in his step that Frank knew could only mean one of two things. Either Mick was furious. Or he'd just been shagged. A chain of vile profanities excluded the latter option. Something was up. Instead of his usual self-doubt, Mick seemed adamant about something.
"Frank," he said. "I'm going to do it tonight. I'm going to ask her."
"Ask who?" Frank muttered between sips of cheap piss.
"My wife. I'm going to ask her why she's sleeping around."

Frank nodded. He worked to suppress a wry grin. Why wasn't a good question. Why was the kind of question a fool asked when he wanted to get punched in the face. Why was the question that made a man into a former man.

And of course Mick would learn this lesson. He'd learn it, and it would be the last lesson he'd learn. The next day, Mick confronted his wife and grilled her for answers. Helen's always been something of a bitch, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut. It would've been better if she'd just have left Mick and skipped the drama.
When it finally came out that three inches wasn't enough to float Helen's boat, Mick didn't know what to do. All his well thought out responses and retorts, his piercing accusations. It didn't mean a thing. In the end, the only retort he could manage was to tearfully explode his brains over the kitchen wall with a borrowed three-fifty-seven. Helen had been making a pot roast that night, when she heard the sobbing coming down the hallway, she turned just in time to see Mick pull the trigger.

Frank shook his glass, the suds now dissolved to yellow residue at the bottom of his glass. The barkeep eyed him warily as he started to pour another drink. It was swill, but it did the job. Just as sure as old Mick did.

Helen was psychologically destroyed after Mick committed suicide in front of her. When the police found her, she was huddled in the foetal position against the wall opposite Mick's brain display, weeping uncontrollably. The smells of burnt roast and human gore was one the investigators said was both nauseating and strangely comforting at the same time. Helen was committed to a mental institute to help her recovery along. Whoever she'd been having midnight trysts with disappeared as sure as the morning, because Helen only ever received one visitor - Frank.

Frank recalled all the times he had visited Helen in the institution. He looked down into his fresh mug and made a disgusted face. He didn't go to comfort her, oh no. He went to recount all the nights he'd spent with Mick. Helen was a fine woman, oh sure. But what had happened wasn't suicide in Frank's mind. It was murder.

It reminded Frank of his own wife. She had disappeared with both children in the middle of the night in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. The only clue Frank ever got was a letter left on the kitchen table explaining that he wasn't the man she thought he was when she married him, and that his job on the Service had changed him in ways she didn't like. Why, he wanted to ask. But thought better of it. Although perhaps things would've ended up better if he had.

The next day, Frank had responded to a domestic disturbance, with reports of gunshots fired. The Service was, as usual, understaffed, and Frank was the first on the scene - alone. The rest was kind of a blur in his memory. When the dust settled and the spent brass was counted, Frank had practically executed an entire family. His badge was revoked, he was ejected from the Service, and demonized by the public. But that was a long time ago. And Frank recalled distinctly what Mick had told him at that time.
"People will never remember you for when you were strong. They'll only remember that one instant when you were weak. When the façade cracked and you lost it - even for a minute."

"Even for a minute, Mick," muttered Frank as he downed his beer. "Even for a minute."
Rising from his stool at the bar, Frank paid his tab and then staggered out into the cool air. He had enough alcohol in his blood to kill a small horse, but the fresh summer air made him want to go for a drive. Why? He asked himself, as he turned the engine over in his Grand Marquis. Formerly a family car. Now a rolling casket.
Why?