One gig ends. Another begins. One overstays it’s welcome. One is the first to the party, uncomfortably early. I’m a bad host. Pushing one out the back door while the other rings the doorbell, wondering if it’s broken. Once one finally leaves and the other settles in on the couch, I splash toilet water on my face, crouching in the bathroom, back to the closed door. The house phone rings. Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it, one says. One greets yet another one as the water in the toilet runs dangerously low.