Like the good old days, we sat down to dinner at Pink Pony, Tom and Jill and Schmio and me. Well, first, like the good old days, Schmio called, late, and said she was catching a cab and would be right over. There was a hot chocolate to start, and then a tasty Côtes du Rhône, and artichoke heart salads for all. Like the good old days, Tom and I got the booth side of things. We leaned back and he said, “Okay, what do we have to get to the bottom of?” and I said, “L-o-v-e.” “Oh, that,” he said. “Like books, that’s only if you don’t have anything else better to spend your time on.” “Tom,” I said, “that’s awful.” “I know,” he said, “I didn’t mean it at all; I was just being provocative.”

We bump up against each other and we lean our heads on each other’s shoulders and we walk arm-in-arm around the block for a smoke, like the good old days.

At the jukebox, two dollars gets you seven plays, so: Dylan; Dylan; Dylan; The Beatles; The Beach Boys; Tom Waits, because the song was called “Singapore”; and Bowie to round out the night: You like me, and I like it all, we like dancing and we look divine.

Like the good old days, midnight crept upon us like quiet like warmth like the covers pulled up snug under our chins.