The shelf life of insomnia is forever on tap, a fresh pull from the keg of midnight when all other bars have closed. Collecting of cold crumbs of minutes, salvaged from the table of time that was already set...

“That depends,” she said, rolling the glass between her palms until condensation dripped onto her knees. The ice clinked like a metronome counting down. “You still enjoy Brahms?” His left eyebrow twitched—almost imperceptibly—but she caught it. Caught the way...