Went to the Hangout last night with the Friar. Once there, I sent out tentative, exploratory texts to a few people (T-Bone, K, Jaded, Epalg), but no one else wanted to come. I can understand why. It is a college bar, and last night was Douchebag Central, what with all the goddam frat boys and sorority skanks milling around. But eventually the usual gang of picaresque rogues --- AL and Tall and Fat and Voluptuary and so on --- came around, and we all had a good time monopolizing the trivia machine and talking a bunch of crap in general.
As has become our custom, I gave Friar a ride home (I'm never more than mildly tipsy by 2:00 a.m., while he's invariably plastered). No sooner had I reached my own house and kicked off my shoes than Friar called me (which in itself is anomalous, as he typically communicates solely through text massages). He said that Palfrey, in normal circumstances a rather iracund individual in any case, had become incensed at his lingering in the car chatting with me a few minutes outside their house. She proceeded to take his keys and throw them into the yard. Whereupon Friar, perhaps not unreasonably, pounded on the large front window and shattered it.
Well, that was his version of the tale, anyway. I walked back out and was reaching for my car door handle to pick him up when he said to forget it and hung up. A few tearful phone calls from Palfrey followed --- she urged me to go pick him up --- but he ducked my calls and ignored my texts, so I went to bed.
The nosography of connubial distress, or, Everyone's got problems.