“You’re tipsy again.” “You’re not?” I ask, looking at him over the rim of my beer glass. “I get that you have a higher tolerance than me, but come on.” “I’m not tipsy,” he says. “I have at least a foot of height on you, not to mention I drink more often.” “Hey, you don’t know what I do in my spare time.” “I know enough to be sure it’s not downing beers like there’s no tomorrow. Careful there, shorty. I’ll finish the last of your final beer.” “How self-sacrificing,” I say. “That’s me. Noble to the core.”