Democratic voters should stick to their day jobs. With just five weeks until Election Day, there’s reason to believe they guessed wrong — that Dean would be doing better against Bush than Kerry is.

Peter Beinart, in this week’s Time Magazine.

Peter couldn’t get the image of the old cartoons out of his mind – the sodden businessman, the little bubbles over his head indicating drunkenness, holding his shoes as he tip-toed into the bedroom. So as Not To Wake The Wife. And now, here he was, holding on to the screen door so that it didn’t crash into the jamb with a bang, like it always did. Which would make a noise. Which might wake someone up.

Well, at least he still had his shoes on.

He poured himself a drink – not the first he’d had tonight, but who’s counting (well, he know who would count, but hopefully, that wouldn’t be an issue) – and tried to come up with a good reason he went out to the bar after work; that is, a good reason that wasn’t the truth. Then steps on the stairway – damn. Damn, damn, damn. He had been so quiet.

John came into the room, his robe neatly tied, his hair perfect, as always. “Does he sleep with his head raised above the pillow?” Peter wondered to himself.

“You’re late tonight,” John said. There was nothing in his voice to indicate anger, but even that drove Peter crazy now. A little anger would go a long way. A little passion…

“Yeah, had to do some stuff…”

“Seems like that’s happening a lot lately.” John folded his lanky six foot four frame into the sofa next to him. “Maybe I’ll have a drink too, if you’d like some company.”

“Sure.” Peter got up and went to the bar, and found his hands making the drink without any direction from his brain. Four parts Tanquerary, a splash of Martini brand vermouth – John liked to natter on about how “dry martinis” was just a fad – the olive, the splash of juice to make it “dirty.” Yeah, he thought to himself, that’s as dirty as things get around here –

– and then it hit him, again, that vision of Howard splayed on the couch in his old apartment, cracking his third Old Milwaukee of the evening, shouting at the hockey game. In his memory, Howard always seemed so young, so exciting, so alive – and so, of course, was Peter. That’s the ridiculous thing about memories, Peter thought to himself… they don’t have to keep up with events.

Back to John. His hand, roughened from all that windsurfing, took the drink and raised it to Peter. “Here’s to your health, and your wealth, mud in your eye and the wind at your back.”

John thought that was cute. Howard would have laughed and crushed a beer can against his forehead.

“What’s wrong, Peter?”

“Nothing.”

“You seemed a little… I don’t know, I can’t read your mind, certainly, but a little… let’s say you’re attention is elsewhere.”

Peter wanted to scream: “You mean I’m distracted? Then would you just fucking SAY IT?” But he didn’t. Screaming. Howard screamed. John never raised his voice. You could drop an anvil on his toe and John would hardly peep. At one time, that seemed like such a relief… Howard had been so volatile, so crazy. Now, Peter thought to himself, I know what that was. He was alive. Which, all things considered, turns out to be a better alternative.

Peter sat down on the couch and nursed his drink. This wouldn’t get him anywhere, he knew. That there was the real world, and what Might Have Been. He had made a decision and now he was stuck with it. Somewhere off to his left, John was talking about something… trade policy, maybe. Or some endless anecdote which always ended with John being in the right.

You marry for life, Peter told himself, and you date for fun. But what’s the point of living, if you have no fun?

John was looking at him expectantly. He had just said something. Peter had no idea what it was. Could he guess? No. Shit. Now what?

“I’m sorry, Howard, I wasn’t listening.”

The two men looked at each other. John smiled. Peter looked at the floor.