This is Getting to Be Like Watty Day, Isn't It?

I don’t know what the hell happened after that.  Op and I kept drinking, and we kept yapping.  Well, I kept yapping – Op had already used up his hundred or so words for one night.  The gentle rhythm of drinking and talking and drinking and not talking took hold and the night floated on.  One by one, the regulars either drifted off or fell asleep at their stools while groups of hipsters came and went.  Finally I heard a woman’s voice, and I looked up.  It was the girl I had hugged.  Oh oh.  I looked behind her for an accompanying policeman.