Out of the door into a night humid and sweet as watered silk, still laughing. “Let’s keep this party going,” he says. “Let’s not wind things up just yet.”

Greenteeth looks at his watch: 2:30. “Actually, I should get home. This has been great, but I’ve got to get up tomorrow, so…”

Something vital and living drains out of his smile. He shows a mouth all teeth, breath heavy with brandy, chartreuse, something crumbling and earthy. “Let me walk you home, at least.” Greenteeth hems and haws, and he leans in yet closer. “C’mon, now.”

Night barren of stars, disappeared down the luminous throat of the capitol. Their heels clack and echo on the sidewalk, Greenteeth’s soft and susurrus and his clear and crisp. He tells a story, one of his shaggy, hilarious tales; the walk is swift. His arms stay still at his side, and he keeps his face turned to Greenteeth.

Home again, and blurry. Greenteeth slumps against the door, the lock quivering under his weight. He laughs; he is always laughing. “Careful there, buddy. Let’s get you to bed.”

Greenteeth, later, looking back, pieces the night together, remembers the bar and the walk, the door opening, sitting on his bed, drinking water. He is sitting in a chair, swallowed by shadows, long white teeth lit by a cigarette. Morning after Greenteeth’s head throbs, aching after lost time, lost memory.