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It was a fine night.

I asked my husband out on a date this past Saturday. I was flattered when he said yes. We lined up a babysitter. I put on lipstick and he did not wear dusty work boots. We exchanged our worries and a huge pile of laundry for a night of cocktails and easy conversation with old friends at the Broken Shaker in Miami Beach. Our curfew was 12:30 a.m. We had a chill night in that moonlit courtyard, and even though my hot date fell asleep on the way to our crib (a 4-hour escapade can update anyone’s Beach vernacular), I drove home in a soft afterglow. We arrived punctually. It was 12:30 a.m.

We silently opened our front door. I stubbed my toe on an errant piece of luggage I know I haven’t moved since last December. We crept in past a swifter, a broom and a vacuum cleaner someone used to support several comforters in a makeshift roof. Beneath said roof huddled three drowsy fools beside a sleeping babysitter. Our living room had transformed into a tent city. A complex but collapsible city. The architect, the entertainer, and the barrister used just about every piece of linen, every chair, and every pillow I treasure to erect this so-called masterpiece. Their beds were stripped bare of pillows and sheets.  It was a scene out of Animal House minus the toga.

A trail of brownies littered the floor and stuck to the walls. We circumvented couch pillows and a step-ladder to get to our room. On Blas’ nightstand, a brownie and a glass of milk. A warm welcome home. Tired, we went to bed. Their hushed voices lulled me to sleep.

It was a fine night.