Gary stood on the rooftop shouting nonsense phrases into the sunrise. Mary fanned him with yesterday’s New York Post. The birth of a ritual. From this day on their predawn benders would climax in non sequiturs and cool breezes. When the sun fully rose they would retire to their separate apartments and dream of making love to each other. Something they never had the guts to do when sober nor remembered to do when they were drunk. They lived for that magic moment after two drinks when their love would spark only to be lost in the inertia of intoxication.