Having been part of the movement in California to ban smoking in restaurants, it was a real letdown to find that, in all but one prefecture in Japan, smoking is still allowed. It’s everywhere and deeply unpleasant. People like me have to put in serious effort to find places that are both truly smoke-free and worth eating at.

The thought of a smoke-free bar in Japan is almost laughable. Japan’s well earned its nickname: “A Smoker’s Paradise.” And yet… in one city I lived in, there was a dive bar—the kind that only exists in Japan—that didn’t allow smoking. It was bilingual (English and Japanese), run by the friendliest guy, who—rare for bar owners in Japan—wasn’t even Japanese, and he always kept seats open for those of us who don’t drink. This bar wasn’t just a place to grab a drink; it was a refuge, a quirky little world where you could forget about all the smokers outside. It’s where Japan’s outcasts and foreigners—refugees in spirit—came together for good times. And no, it’s not a cliché to say it was the kind of place where everyone knew your name and was genuinely happy to see you walk in.

I joined the ranks of the regulars each night after a long day of work, always stopping by after a deep soak at the neighborhood public bath.

Among the tapestry of characters vibing there was a Japanese couple, friends of mine. He was a kind, big, and strong lad. She was equally kind, with a kind of beauty only possible through an unfair share of charisma and the smarts to match. One chilly night, the three of us were talking, pausing our repartee between the thunderous passing of subway trains. They were the type of couple we all root for, myself included—though I had an awkward little secret I was about to unleash. He’d eventually discover the mistake he was making, but only after it was too late. I know myself: “If I don’t say it, nobody else will.”

At a certain point, he got annoyed with me because he thought, not incorrectly, that I was flirting with his girlfriend. A few people nearby noticed and shifted their attention to us, curious to see what was about to happen. My truth Tourette’s kicked in—social dynamite, but also the cause of some of my best moments, like tonight.

I squared my shoulders with his at the bar, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “You’re worried I was flirting with her. Oh, my friend, let’s get something straight.”

The circle of people listening in widened.

“You don’t need to worry about that. What you should be worrying about is how, at the first opportunity, I’d steal your girl away from you.”

He planted his feet on the floor, his butt still glued to the chair. The bartender-owner shot me a glance, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing?”

Undeterred, I went on, “As your friend, I’ll tell you the truth. I’d stab you in the back, take her hand, step over your body, walk off into the sunset, and never look back.”

The circle of listeners had now filled every inch of this postage-stamp-sized bar. She was blushing—not out of embarrassment, but from the bold attention. He stood up, and his body language made it clear he was deciding when and how he’d punch me.

“Listen to me very closely. It will never happen. Never! I don’t stand a chance. No guy does.”

Watching the confusion flicker across his face, I noticed the rest of the bar was now perplexed—thankfully, more so than angry. But only slightly. Letting it sink in, I continued.

“You are one lucky bastard. She loves you. Really loves you. As in, she’d rather die than cheat on you or give up on you, and that’s what makes her that much more special.”

Direct hit to his heart—harder than any punch he could have thrown at me.

“The only way you lose her is if you screw it up. So, as your friend, don’t screw it up. Keep earning her love. None of us in this bar want you two to break up. Just know, if you break her heart, I and a bunch of other guys will be fighting over who gets to make sure you don’t get a second chance.”

To that, he said—and I’ll translate the spirit of his words into modern English—“Jesus Christ, Ricky. You’re insane. I have to take a piss.” We remain friends to this day. Years later, I heard they were still together. As he half-drunkenly made his way up the most dangerous stairs imaginable to get to the smallest toilet I have ever seen, the bar owner turned to me and said, “Well, that settles it! If you ever do decide to start drinking, I will refuse to serve you! You’d be the worst kind of drunk. Jesus, Ricky.” We’re still friends too.

I looked at her. She looked at me and, with heartfelt sincerity, said, “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”

I respectfully bowed in the Japanese tradition and nodded my head in the finest Western gentleman tradition, acknowledging the lady’s grace.

In today’s day and age, finding true romantic love is as rare as finding a smoke-free bar in Japan. If you’re lucky enough to find it, promise yourself you’ll never take it for granted. Lose a partner of such high quality, and we all end up looking like the poor bugger in this week’s photograph.

And now… know the photograph.