I know that when the bottle opens that's kind of it; there'll be no practicing tonight. An early bed time and probably nightmares, but I do it anyway because it's fun. Judy's face gets red and probably mine does, too. We insinuate inappropriate jokes to each other and it's like a scene from Falstaff if Falstaff drank with his mother-in-law. I hear about old friends of hers that I don't care about and I say nothing as the warm tingle oozes through me. A kind of pleasant pleasure in my face. A warm kind of hum.
Unsteady gait home over the black starlit street. Hello, moon. Hello distant headlights. A train sounds. Windy autumn blowing through dark leaves. The wine has awakened me to carefreeness, to tomorrow will come tomorrow, to maybe tomorrow will never come. Pause. Eyes closed. Breathe. It feels good and I really don't know if it's an addiction because I don't know if I regret it.