Kip was drunk. Intensely drunk, blisteringly drunk, maniacally drunk; happily drunk.

Everything tasted like flowers when it hit his tongue.

Kip had made a fool of himself. He knew that. He couldn't remember how, though.

But Katrina remembered. Boy, oh boy, Katrina remembers, I'm catching hell for that. Giggle.

Katrina remembered, very well, how Kip had staggered to the front of the room, stood on a table, stoutly inquired why flowers smelled so good and tasted so piss, stoutly wet himself in front of a sizable audience.

Katrina took him home and put him to bed.

But on the car ride home, Kip had felt obliged to share more deep thoughts, mostly relating to picnics, lightning, and the size of the sex organs on most mammals, specifically whales, and how that related to their culture.

She had borne the tide with great long suffering, had tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, calmly wiped the saliva of his overly enthusiastic kiss onto her dress, smashed into her chair. She believed very strongly that it was of no use to reprimand a drunk. The sober feel more pain.