Bob’s grand plan to glide unnoticed into bed dissolved the moment gravity stepped in. The staircase won decisively, shredding his dignity along with his whiskey-filled back pockets. Bleeding, tipsy, and stubbornly optimistic, he launched into a one-man medical operation in the hallway. Too drunk to twist properly, he slapped Band-Aids wherever his hands landed, decorating the mirror instead of his own back. To him, it felt ingenious. To the mirror, it looked like modern art.

Morning arrived with a pounding head and Kathleen’s shadow falling across the bed. Her questions weren’t angry; they were surgical. Each detail she listed—glass on the steps, blood on the floor, Band-Aids on the mirror—cut straight through his flimsy act. And yet, as they cleaned up, the mess turned into shared laughter. The disaster became a legend, a story retold not with shame, but with affection—and a quiet promise to respect the stairs next time.