Friday Nights

We are going to dance! she exlaims for a week, preparing for the weekend of her birthday. A motley crew trundles through Williamsburg to the narrow bar where lumber jack-wannabes crowd onto the nonexistant dance floor, and the DJ loses himself in 1980 and 1991.

Eventually, I walk home alone down glazed streets along a row of cat calls. New York City sleeps when no one is looking and only the garbage gets picked up. Orphan puppy is tumbling about in my week's worth of dirty laundry; when I go to bed she nestles in my armpit and putters happily while I sort through work emails that were lost in the excitement of Friday evening.

How simple the pleasures of life, sometimes.