My dad always said, "One scotch after work really hits the spot. I just can't remember if it's the seventh or the eighth one!"

I try to tell this joke to the brunette ordering a round of shots for her girlfriends. It comes out something like, "My dad drinks scotch at work. Are you a natural brown head?" The bartender suggests it might be time for me to head home. I leave a twenty dollar tip.

There is an enormous mural on the side of the parking garage near my apartment. The first part I stumble past is a pianist--eight feet tall in a tuxedo, seated at a cherry-red baby grand. A microphone dropped down from heaven above hangs by his mouth. His eyes are shut and his hands are gigantic, stretching fifteen keys. I know this because I've counted before, and he's playing a D chord with his pinky reaching up for the high 7th. It would make the sound a little sadder, but more full.

On top of the cherry-red baby grand is painted a miniature city scape, which I think is the little stretch of skyscrapers just west of Grant Park, down by the lake. If you look closely, the artist even painted in the blue awning of the sandwich place where Emily and I went the day she adopted her cat. We ordered separately because I was in the bathroom, but when our food came up we realized we had ordered the exact same thing, down to the number of pickles tucked between the folds of turkey and a little mustard. I kissed her right there.

I'll try to tell this to her side of the bed when I get home.