with the stale taste of a beer last touched an hour ago still lingering in my mouth, i declare my resolve to brush my teeth and go to bed. it's been fun, this cold evening... perhaps, someday, you and i will share a more delicate drink (olympia beer will survive the apolcolypse - along with the cockroaches) next to this fire, or one like it. i wouldn't mind the crack of real wood burning.
perhaps we'll laugh and touch knees before the awkward silence that can be followed, only by the passion of a kiss. or, a toast to better days.