That was not the first time that Michael had to “save” Dotty. Gently taking her aside, asking if she was alright. Knowing, instinctively, that she wasn’t. Slipping her a vicodin, disguised in a bubbly drink. Watching, from afar, as she fell in and out of sleep in that corner booth he always placed her in.

They had been friends for upwards of a decade. He had followed her through several tribulations; mainly the ups and downs of her trysts-turned-relationship with Johnnie.

Johnnie, the singer, the crooner, the “cry-guy” Ray. Young, attractive, cheeky.

Michael did not approve of Johnnie. Too young for Dorothy, he thought. Not strong enough to understand the depth of her issues nor the deep, dark crevices of her psyche. Not caring enough to handle her with the tender fragility that was of utmost importance.

What it got down to, was Dorothy was a lady – albeit, a confused and troubled lady as of late – and Johnnie did not possess the capacity to treat her the way she deserved.

Michael resented him for that.