What's in your pocket tonight

It's coming. A wedding, a birthday, a backyard in July. Your first party without it. You know the old routine at the door. Pat the pocket. Check what's left. Guess how long the night will run and whether you've got enough. This time you walk in with nothing to check.

The dread is usually bigger than the night. It says you'll be stiff, awkward, glancing at the clock. Then you're inside, holding a cold drink you like, laughing at something dumb, and the evening carries you. The cigarette turned every invitation into a packing list. Tonight you come as a whole person, not a person plus a supply.

Late in the night a line may show up. 'Tonight doesn't count.' It counts, in the best way. In the morning you'll hold two things. The whole night, start to finish, with nothing pulling you away from it. And proof. You went to a party and didn't smoke. Every party after this one starts with that proof in your pocket.

At the door, one line to God. Walk in with me. Then go find the people you came to see. And give the next morning a victory lap. A real breakfast. A long walk. A call to someone who'll be glad to hear from you. This is the night you get parties back.