Remember when it was quiet. When you came over and I was cooking. You were sitting on the couch. I poured you a drink. It was simple and slow. I asked you about your day and you made a joke.

That hour or so, maybe less than that, when it was just you and me. It fills up with anticipation for the night. It fills up with anxiety about the silence. It fills up with things other than peace if you let it.

But now that we’re in bed in the morning, and we try to remember the night, it’s easy to overlook the subtle acceleration. When A came over and started to play his music and the volume got a little louder. Then K came over and we danced and moved a little faster. And then E and J came over and by then the night was really a big boulder tumbling down the hill.

To really savor it, I don’t know if it’s possible without slowing down. But at least to remember how it started so slow, makes the fast rush of the out of control night just that much sweeter.