The great love of Marion Barry's life In 2006, I was working on a feature story for The Washington Post about the Channel Inn, a legendary hangout in Southwest Washington, where a mature crowd danced and the band played old jams, and crooners two-stepped to the open mic and crooned slow songs of love, regret, promises broken and opportunities missed. The club on the waterfront was a popular late-night scene where women danced in their seats, snapping well-manicured fingers, tapping bejeweled feet. And men in expensive suits, with or without their rings, stood at the bar. As I was finishing my reporting, someone pointed out Marion Barry Jr., standing at the bar. Barry seemed ubiquitous in Washington - everywhere at once. He was well known as a night owl. He had a memory so sharp and acute that he recalled the faces and names of people's mothers and grandmothers. People thanked him continually for the D.C. summer jobs program that gave them their first paychecks. When Barry spoke to a crowd, it was with a charisma that many politicians hoped for. Because my story was about love and broken love and crooners at the Channel Inn singing songs of love, I asked Barry about his own love story. This is what I wrote: And the night slowly closes, but people still linger. Some are dancing to slow music. And there at the bar sits Marion Barry. He is surrounded by women. "He always has the most beautiful women around him," said the keyboardist. You ask the former mayor about broken hearts and love songs because you think he might have an answer. "Well," he says seriously, "I've been married three times. But when Effi decided to end it, it broke my heart. How did you get over it? Prayer and time. It subsides. But you never get over it. It keeps playing, like a needle skipping, stuck in the groove of a broken song. DeNeen L. Brown is an award-winning staff writer at The Washington Post who has covered night police, education, courts, politics and culture.