She scheduled a Lyft, which took her home.
Her husband was on the porch at the front door, fumbling for keys in his pants pocket.
“How was your night?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I have to quit doing this.”
“Me, too. And I have a killer hangover.”
He opened the door.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he said.
“Thanks, honey.”