Most shared nights start with blissful lies told to the doorman. You’re going to a fancy party; you’ll probably sit next to someone famous. Lean on perfectly polished bannisters down golden stairs.

Party dresses attend cocktail parties and you’re the tux. She rests her hand. Tails and all like a penguin. Don’t they mate for life?

Laughing down gum stuck pavement. Her heel caught in the sidewalk, fractured. But you got to carry her letting fingers find homes in the places she bends.

You told the doorman another lie.