It’s nearly Christmas. The bar’s half empty, which also means half full. Even the strangers know each other, the way people do when the righteous are in bed. An older man in a beret sits up front, with an amp and a guitar, and it’s too cold and late for irony. Suddenly, Hotel California. Everyone takes it up, a doxology in two dozen voices. What’s religion but everyone knowing the words? Afterwards, the bartender in cat-eye glasses laughs, says, “You guys bring out the worst in me, which is awesome.” The night fogs like breath on a mirror when we disperse.