The lights come up after dark.

We came for a Friday supper club tour and signed the next week. Nowhere else we looked was even open after six.

I play the Salon piano every Sunday afternoon. Last month twenty people stayed for the encore.

Dad gets restless around five. Vesper House turns the lights warm and puts on his Sinatra. The evenings got easier for all of us.

My hip rehab was in the Health Center. My bridge partners came every evening. I never missed a rubber.

Chess every night at nine in the library. Same opponent for six years. He's never let me win.

The night nurse called at midnight to tell us Mom was fine after a fall, and that the nurse practitioner had already seen her.

They explained the contract over dinner. Then they sent it in writing. No pressure, no fine print.

I'm eighty-four and I go to more concerts now than I did at forty.

Mother loved Sunday vespers by candlelight. The chaplain sat with her through her last nights, every one.

My husband and I still dress for dinner on Fridays. So does everybody else.