The giggles and gales of laughter from downstairs make me smile as I move from my man cave tp the bathroom. She’s entertaining her girlfriends tonight, and they’ve been at it for hours already.

I dare not go downstairs, not because I’ve been told not to, but because I don’t want to be a focus for any length of time. Let them talk freely, of love and family and work, and dreams. Hell, if there’s anything I need to know, my wife will tell me at some point anyway.

But as I listen to her laugh, I’m happy. Because with all of the things she’s think of, being happy is a temporary respite from her usual worry. Adulting has been worrisome recently, and taking one night to forget it all and enjoy the company of people she shares years of friendship with sounds like a great deal to me.

Most of my needs are upstairs with me; I thought to bring some chips up with me, but as my thirst mounts, I have an issue I hadn’t thought of; where am I getting water, if not downstairs? Easy answer: the bathroom sink. I cup my hand under the faucet, remembering the Bible story of how a kind and gentle God killed everyone who “drank like dogs”, and laugh to myself. The large part of my childhood spent outside and having to resort to the metallic tang of water sipped from garden hoses, fearing going inside to refrigerators and the accompanying parental attention.

I return to my space, catching whiffs of conversation and idly wondering how late they’ll be up. I smile any way and close my door.