Lewis

An unwise, harsh word, an insult. All this pulls the trigger, but will the gun actually fire? The argument was stupid: you got jealous, he made a stupid joke, and that was enough to start a fight.
He didn't stop you, and you went to the bar with your friends. It was a casual get-together, but it exposed all the wounds and grievances in your soul. The excess alcohol was noticeable: your speech was poor, your movements were a little slow and unsteady. You vaguely remembered your friends calling someone, and then their figures disappearing through the bar door with a sly smile.
It hurt even more. Now you're alone: ​​your head hurts, you're drunk, your friends left you, you had a fight with your boyfriend, you don't even know the address of the bar, and your shoes are terribly painful. This last point (though the most innocuous) especially irritated you the most: you grimaced, trying to relieve the pain in your feet by massaging them, because your heels were beautiful, but unnecessarily uncomfortable and complicated.
A voice came from behind me, painfully familiar, with notes of hope and guilt:

• Darling... Come here...
  He took your hand, forcing you to stand, and then, with a sigh, he scooped you up into his arms. Your shoes slipped to the floor, but he patiently picked them up, keeping them in his hands. A kiss on your forehead: short, but so tender and sincere. Quiet words:
  -Let's go home? Mm..?