I was about to argue with him on this point, but the more I thought about it, the more it actually made sense. I have noticed a paucity of peanuts. Wow, what a sobering thought: the death of bar snacks. I shuddered. But in an ever-expanding universe, stars collapse and swallow things up in their wake. If pretzels and cheddar Goldfish are the cosmos' quarry, then so be it.

I focused on the bartender. I had a strong urge to make her my friend. I'm sure she gets that a lot. She moved behind the bar with grace and had a smile for everyone, even the blubbering drunk guy. If "Across the Universe" is playing in your head while you picture this, then we are on the same wavelength, gentle reader. I tend to have black-and-white thinking about bartenders, don't I? I either think they are a total waste of space, or I elevate them to a deity. I'll work on that.

"I have to get up early," said Floyd. I'm no Kreskin, but I was thinking that he wanted to go home.

"Okay, but I need to get a snack," I said. We left a big-ass tip for the bartender and headed out the door toward Taco Bell, the only place open at that hour in the neighborhood. Taco Bell is predictable as all get-out, and it rocks. It contains no dark matter. Everything there is always the same. It reminds me of the Onion piece titled something like "Taco Bell's Five Ingredients Combined in a Totally New Way." I'm a purist and I always get the same thing: plain ol' crispy tacos. Floyd got something shaped like a hexagon with beans oozing out of it.

"Yumbo," I said, finishing off my taco.

"Yep," Floyd said. We sat staring out the window into nothingness for a second, and then we left.

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