It begins slow. A few beers at a friend's apartment adorned with Indian skeletons and comfortable couches. Off to a cocktail reception in a cab to midtown. Eat light, drink from Tom Collins glasses while chattering idly about things present and future with old acquaintances. Across the street to a hole-in-the-wall for contrast. Jimmy sitting in the corner playing video poker. Shots and beers, gay conversation and a beautiful woman in a blue dress who has simply had too much. On to another bar for mozzarella sticks and vodka in short glasses. Revelry highlighted by the Mets winning after a rain delay that did not catch you although it did others. And then, alone, you settle the tab and hail a cab. Call the wife while zig-zagging through the financial district across the Brooklyn Bridge where you stop in the corner bar and your neighbor is happy to see you. Then home where your wife fixes you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pours you a tall glass of water to go with your aspirin. The dog is happy to see you and licks your hand and you realize when you look back at your wife that the night is not quite over. Life burns bright and you are intoxicated by its stare.