At one point, Don and I went downstairs to chalk up some of Juan Valdez's major export. We could not even get close to where we needed to be, because the crowd in my downstairs laundry room was shoulder to shoulder, with no entry.

So with a subtle tug, he let me know to go, and we went to his room. After all, its our house. Fuck waiting for anything.

He flicks on the light. I file into his room.

In his bed, splayed corner to corner and still not fitting, was a very large, sylishly dressed, sweaty black man.

I wanted to say, "Oh, look, Don, a large sweaty black man in your bed.", but didn't think it was too pc. Besides, it was Don's room. Maybe this was his doing.

The jokes followed later. ("You n' Christie trying something new?" "What, all my friends are doing it?")

Don looked at me, and I looked at him. Surprised.

don:"Hey, there. What's going on?"

lsbm:"Nothing."

Don:"You okay?"

lsbm:"Yeah, just taking a nap."

So we chalked up Don's stereo speaker, offered him one (he declined) and let him be.

Later on, Don would chase him out, ("He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay.") while I was talking to Maude, and thus blowing my cool.

Dig it, I came full circle.