Smooth and Creamy

8-9-10
Two in the morning:
I switch on a light and lock the door against the darkness, shivering a little bit in the stale, cold silence. Opening the ice box, I survey what's inside. It's milk I'm after and pull out my carton only to immediately put it back and choose instead my roommate's milk. Ah, two percent.

I pour myself a shot, literally, and sip it, feeling richer and creamier for the moment.

Pouring a second shot, I return the carton to the fridge. Can't overdo it. It's not my milk.

Those conversations that start late at night and meander into the wee hours of the morning vary widely, but in general something came to the surface. When your friend is pregnant, on bed rest and all ears, you talk. The dog is asleep on the floor. Comically, so is the husband.

You voice stuff you can't put into words, and your friend understands, explaining to you what you've been trying to say or trying to not say or not trying at all. But she knows. She knows she's not sure she knows and she knows you don't know but you know she knows. So it's all right.

And then you drive. You hop on deserted streets and look at your gas light, now burning with vengeance, all the while thinking 'I do not feel safe stopping for gas. I don't even know this city. I wonder how far I can go?" But you shove those thoughts far enough into the base of your skull to let everything else flow. You talk to Jesus about what you told your pregnant friend, all that stuff which, for some reason, tends to dam up before it breaks and spills all at once in a torrent, but there you have it.

You find a gas station, you give it a few gallons without getting mugged despite the darkness, and you make it home to your warm kitchen with the cool fridge.

It was a two percent kind of night.