We raced through the rain, hill up. Clunky helmets wobbling, down. Another crossing. The last block. More smudged still lifes of light and laughter. We halted, dismounted, locked our bikes. And right there, right that. The locking of the bike. I had done it before, many times. In a similar winter cold, under the same looking lantern lights. It smelled the same; it felt the same. Even the part where we looked for the entrance, same. But inside I didn’t see them. The usual suspects. Not the same. A missing crept in. We both felt it. Sat with it. And let it quietly fade in copious amounts of cider and the crackling of the fire and the usual love.