It was the second week of January, and George was fifty, and felt it. His girlfriend had left him over Christmas to spend the holiday with her daughter in Miami. She called him up New Year's Eve morning and told him she'd gotten a job down there and wasn't coming back. So instead of picking her up at the airport George picked up a big case of Miller High Life's on sale for $10.99 at the liquor store, went home and spent New Year's Eve watching Soprano reruns on DVD, drinking halfway through the case of beer, and talking to his cat.
She went to Miami. He got drunk.
That was the whole sad affair in two short sentences. Seven words.
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