Anthony slid the notebook back to the woman, very happy with the idea of not looking at it ever again. He tapped his fingers on the table—the fidgety little bastard he is—and looked at the woman with a look on his face that said a lot but also absolutely nothing at the same time. Most of all, however, he looked kind of confused. To not overexert his brain, he just looked at her, waiting for her to say something.

Instead of saying something, however, it seemed that she was dead-set on embarrassing herself and getting as drunk as humanly possible. Her determination was almost awe-inspiring, yet terrifying at the same time. Anthony couldn't help but wonder whether she really was so very heartbroken or whatever that she had drink and cry herself to oblivion in some no-name bar by the docks. Wouldn't it have been safer to do this at......home? Or a place less dangerous than this.

He was hardly one to judge, however. Though he would certainly never admit it if asked, he's had his fair share of crying in a nondescript bar alone because of a man. So perhaps that was why he was so....empathetic? pitying? towards this woman. Anthony lowered his gaze from her face to the table, his finger-tapping growing more intense as his mind descended into memories and thoughts he would have much rather not remembered. He got the sudden urge to drink, and would have done so, had the woman drank the entirety of the damn bottle.

He raised his head suddenly as she spoke again, calling attention to his illiteracy because absolutely everyone in this place needs to know that Anthony Rowe can't fucking read. "Doesn't do me any good either," he shrugged, listening to the woman describe the guy she's been weeping about the entire time. "that's pretty vague, isn't it? Quite a bit of men that look like that."

"What's his name?" Maybe he has heard of him?