Well, maybe I’m exaggerating this a little now, and my point is to be true in this writing, make it as scientific as I can. Maybe I only thought my life was so perfect because I know of the awful downturn everything took later that same night. In any case, I beat him, we parted at the courts, and he took a taxi home. I smoked the leftovers of a joint I had in my back pocket, and took a nice hour-long walk all the way downtown to my apartment. I watched night slowly land on the city, allowing the yellow cabs to smear in front of my diluted vision and transform into one uniform line of yellow light. I was thinking of how messages are probably accumulating on my answering machine. When I finally got home, I hit play to hear my messages. I should tell you right now how much I love listening to my messages. I am probably the only club promoter in the world that doesn’t carry a cell phone. I can’t. If I did, no one would leave me messages at home. God, how I love listening to my messages. I hate voicemails that you have to dial in to retrieve your messages, because then you can’t hear them played out loud. Everyday, at least once a day, I blast the volume to the max on my machine, and light a cigarette. I sit back on a chair as the voice from the tiny speaker floods the room and mixes with my cigarette smoke. The number 3 flashed in digital red on the display and I pressed the play button, ears attuned, cigarette in mouth, and lighter in hand. All my life I will never forget that first message that played: it was Donna. She was calling from a noisy restaurant, and the sound of people chatting and eating filled my living room along with her voice.