He doesn't need another drink or advice or thanks, he just wants his empty pockets to make sense.

Out on the sidewalk with a beer, a stranger says, get in here. Get in here with your beer.

Back at the bar underneath hard light he says, I can walk home. Don't worry about me.

I worry about everyone that stays until closing time, greeting a new day at the ATM waiting for cash to pay a tab.

My friend turned 40 today and we had a cake and booze. None of us have done much since 18, when we thought we would get to everything.

I remember greeting each weekend with a six-pack and hope. Maybe someone would be at the party. Maybe I would have fun. Maybe there is something here for me, but I went home and woke, hung over.

I found sandalwood-scented bottles and fit one into my purse. It's the best thing I ever stole.