“You can rest when you’re dead,”, she said. “It’s
almost midnight; come on out!”

“I’m already dead, on my feet,” I said. I’d been planning to use
the lateness of the hour as my own argument for staying in. She wasn’t having it. “Rattle those bones and come celebrate! How old are you, anyway?”

She’d gotten me where I lived. Or used to. I must have been out of my skull, but I finally agreed to meet her at the foot of Canal Street at half past twelve.

“I’ll see you there!”, she said. “You’re a saint!”.

“So are you,” I said, but she was already gone.