Thursday Night
by Josh Knowles
November 21, 2000

As the night progressed, the party faded away. Of the eight of us on the couches, first Thomas and his girlfriend left, then Molly for sleep, and Fritz and Julep -- probably out of boredom. Micah had been curled up on the far sofa for, wow, it must have been most of the night -- maybe since one. Otherwise, it was just the two of us awake now, she and I, underneath gently blinking Christmas lights and slowly turning ceiling fans.

I don't want to think of her name right now. It's not important. We're just here and we haven't distanced our bodies much from having been squished together while sharing this small couch with two other people. I look at the empty cup in my hand, then at hers on the floor. Emptied bottles of Harp's and Sol cervesa decorate most of the room's flat surfaces -- on the coffee table about a dozen, on the mantle of the fireplace, everywhere on the floor, upright, knocked over, a beer puddle underneath the armchair -- the result of a clumsy Fritz.

What time is it?

Micah groans softly. I roll my head along the back of the couch where it rests to look at him. He curls himself over into a fetal position, face into the couch cushions.

She laughs softly. The room's too sleepy to make much noise.

"Poor Micah," I laugh.

"How much did he have to drink?"

"I don't know. Not much, I don't think."

"Just a few beers."

"I guess."

"Look how many bottles we've gone through, though."

I know the answer but I lift my head anyway to survey the room. "Impressive. We know what we're doing. We're professionals, after all."

"Are we?" she laughed.

"Sure. We practice at least three times a week, have games every Thursday."

"Games?"

"Well, not against anyone, I guess."

"And everyone wins, right?"

"Micah wins tonight."

"And why's that?"

"Um. 'Cos he'll wake up in the silliest place tomorrow."

"He's just on the couch."

"It didn't take much to win tonight."

"I guess no one's in the lawn or on the kitchen floor."

"Or in the bushes."

"On the stairs."

"Electrical-taped to the ceiling."

She laughs at that. Everything's an excuse to laugh right now. Watch, we'll laugh at Julep's expense as he walks through the house commons with his cup of water.

"Going out to sleep in the bushes?"

"Sleep with the fishes?" He's confused. And tired. She laughs.

"In the bushes."

"Um. No, upstairs."

That's the benefit of alcohol and silly company, I suppose -- the excuse to laugh at anything. Micah groans again and squirms, but doesn't change his position.

"It looks like he's making out with the cushion, there," I note.

She laughs and I look at her and smile. Our eyes lock for a moment but I split them, sending mine back up to the ceiling where they belong right now.

"Are you tired?" I ask.

"I don't know. I guess I should be." Pause. "What time is it?"

"Probably three. When do you have class tomorrow?"

"One."

"You can stay up another three hours and still get six hours of sleep."

"Six hours of sleep? No, I've got to be up earlier than that tomorrow."

This line of conversation needs to end. I lift up my cup and make sure there's no more drink inside. Just a couple drops -- not enough to worry about. I twirl the little slosh around in the base of the cup.

"Do you want another drink?" she asks.

"Yeah, but there isn't any more. Do you want another one?"

"It doesn't look like it matters."

"We could figure something out, I'm sure, if you wanted something. We could bang on Julep's door."

"No. He looked pissed."

"He's probably asleep." As we should be, girlie. "Or close to it. There might be some in the guff fridge."

"That's not ours, though."

"Well, I mean, there are drinks available."

"Yeah but those are other people's." She looks at me with sheepish, happy eyes.

"They're not going to drink them tonightÉ"

"You can't just steal people's beer!"

"What if we take a couple or four and tomorrow -- before anyone notices -- go out and buy a replacement six-pack. It's perfect." I'm seriously considering this. "Even if they find out, we can replace the beer before they need it."

She's looking at me like I'm insane.

I continue, "People drink in the evenings, right. Lots of time."

"I guess so."

"I'll go grab a couple, okay?" I'm antsy with the thought of crime.

"Do what you wanna do..."

"I will." I stay in my seat. "Ugh. But this seat's so comfortable." It really does sound like effort and I feel our conversation's losing balance. She's clamming up and I'm getting silly. I want this night to continue and I think loosing our buzz will kill the mood. What's mellow and beautiful while drunk can turn boring and useless when sobriety brings you back into the real world of work and sleep and not spending hours on end on an old sofa next to some random guy you've known for a month. Or girl. Need beer. "Okay."

I get up -- stiffly -- and trudge into the dining room where we keep our fridge and beer. I open the fridge and look inside. We've got the usual, a couple bottles of Shiners and four of Woodchuck cider in six-pack cardboard boxes, three Old English 24-ounce cans, one loose Bartles and James (who the hell...), and a tall-boy of Guinness. Hmm. Well, the Guinness is probably Micah's. Don't want the Bartles and James, obviously. I grab and OE, figuring they're Julep's, and a Woodchuck, figuring she's more likely to drink cider than malt liquor. Great. Back to the living room.

"Malt liquor or cider?" I ask as a plop back down into the sofa beside her.

"Cider."

"Here ya go."

"I don't understand how you can drink that."

"It's just beer."