It had to be nearly two in the morning. We were leaving their charming Brooklyn apartment—white walls, wide plank floors, an enviable mix of designer and vintage furnishings—because we were afraid that the old lady downstairs might wake up from all our noise. The four girls who had just arrived were unnecessarily loud. We would take the party to a different location, a new bar in the neighborhood, on Union between Metropolitan and Conselyea. It would have been easy for me to just say goodbye right then and there. I considered it. I considered it again. No one would have blamed me—it was late and I had a long ride home—but something, or several things, kept me around for one more.

It's a good enough question, one that could lead to all sorts of interesting ideas.

"Classic salsa," I answered.

"What?"

"All I've been listening to lately is classic salsa. From the seventies."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"But what else have you been listening to? Seriously. I won't..."

"That's it. It's an addiction. I'm obsessed, but the salsa doesn't seem to mind."