My weekend of solitude has not been very solitary.

My recent drinking buddy stopped in last night for kitchen cocktails and bubbling conversation. I am a fount of both.

Her poison for the evening: Gin and Tonic, mine: Tequila Sunrise�minus the sun rising bit. Our liquor store does not sell grenadine, nor does it sell more then one kind of Tequila, but such is the price of convenience. As always, I make do with what I have.

We watched Radiohead videos and chatted for a bit before heading out to Frank�s to meet her brother.

Frank�s: A shining example of racial harmony, of tone and shade united under the common love of old soul and vintage hip-hop. Chill. Mellow. Good-times.

Franks was packed. Packed in such a way that drinks are ordered by the telephone game. Ass-to-ass packed. �Leave your personal space bubble at the door� packed.

We waited, we drank. Friends arrived. I played the �find out that girl�s name so I can pretend I didn�t forget� game. I think it was Lisa, if you�re keeping track.

Apparently everyone associated had serious ambitions of rug-cutting, ambitions I did not share. They were all rip-roaring to lay down their cover charge so that they could shake the booty electronica upstairs. I was tired and uninterested in attempting to pretend that I could dance, so I retired to my homestead. I turned over my housekeys so that she could retrieve her bike when she was finished with the rump-shaking.

At the crack of 3:30, a slightly drunken girl stumbled into my darkened room in search of bedding materials. Apparently, she did not notice all the notes I left for her suggesting that she stay the night. She also did not find the other notes telling her how I prepared Fritz�s old bed with extra blankets and a pillow. I would have gotten up to assist in the sleep-time preparations, but then we�d both have to deal with the uncomfortable �let�s find my pants� routine.

No one�s a winner at that game.

I decided that it would be okay, just this once, if I were not the perfect host. And so, I fell right back to sleep and left the details in her capable hands.

The next morning I made us both waffles while we watched cartoons. She discovered the magic of Kipper and giggled each time the tiny mouse spoke. Every time the conversation turned to the previous night�s intoxication, she hid her face inside her turtleneck.

This one is a different kind of shy. A shy I have not known before.

Eventually she pedaled her bike back to Cobble Hill to attend to various appointments, movie showings, etc. I returned to my daily chores of guitar-playing and life-contemplation.

Tomorrow, I will either go to a museum, or I will construct a paper mache� monkey.

That�s a threat, not a promise.