Brake lights fade away, blinking into the distance; the black asphalt blends with the dark night sky at the crest of the hill. Walking down the tree-lined street, the shadows of this suburban life creep from the bushes; a maintained and edged lawn, a tire swing. A cat hops up to the front stoop and immediately whips around to groom itself under the harsh porch light. It’s Trash Day in the morning and the big, awkward bins are carefully placed. Close, but not too close, so the Beamers don’t get scratched on their way from driveway to window office.

It was a consolation-- our Plan-B. Not what we had in mind, the show went on: laughing and the clinking sound of another round. Questions of how we even got here, another round, and a threat to stop serving. A burst of laughter and one horrified look. Hiccups and another round. The night ends and we wake up the next morning wondering how a drawing of a unicorn ejaculating rainbows got into our day-planner.

Hopeless and helpless songs play over crackling speakers and take us back to a time when we thought the only place to be was in love. We remember the happy: silly string and smiles and five-dollar bets. The subject changes, and we stare at desolate mountains and scrub trees, silently trying to grasp at the strings of our then-15 year-old lives. Some things will never change, other things have already happened. The car feels claustrophobic as twilight hits the desert.

Some mornings seem easier than others: the coffee makes it from grinder to maker without speckling the counter; the anxious cat gets fed without being tripped over. There's no stumbling on this morning. For once, remember the front windows are open before waltzing through in only underwear; press play on the stereo and a favorite album is already cued up. Moving to the bathroom, the rush of what happened the night before comes in like the rain. Hands still holding the edge of the sink, the body goes down, down, down. There's only floor left.

You come home at night, nothing out of the ordinary; drop your keys on the table by the door, kick your shoes under the coffee table. You stand in front of your medicine cabinet mirror brushing your teeth. Staring. You get goose bumps when you hit the cool sheets, wrap your arms around the extra pillow. And then you dream, and you can’t tell the shards of glass from the fireflies.

She needed something to read. Her eyes darted from one end of the bookshelf to the other, then up and down; dragged her fingers across the torn spines of books read and re-read. What to choose, what to choose? Hundreds of books right there for the taking. She put her finger on an Updike; changed her mind. There’s always Hamlet—the good ole standby. Stepped back and stuffed her hands down into her back pockets. There: The foxed pages and bold cover-art of a Norton circa 1966. Settling in, the smell of the old pages was comforting.

The sign proclaimed “Irish Pub,” but the waiters’ t-shirts shouting, “Kiss My Blarney Stone” said otherwise. Tears for Fears and Keith Whitley covers-- it took five tries to enunciate BODD-ING-TONS to the bartender; I gave up and pointed to the tap. I did not want to rule the world. I was reminded how many shopping days I had left until the next St. Patrick’s Day (brought to me by Guinness), and my ass was inspected by men my father could have gone to high school with; still wearing their office-attire: ties loosened, khakis pleated.