On this date in history...

At this point one year ago, I had a headache, no idea of when or where the show was taking place and little inkling that a two-day hangover would set in the next day.

This was right before things moved from strained to downright awkward, but well before the emails showed me I needed to stop trying to figure people out.

It seemed appropriate, I decided, that we should celebrate the realignment of performers, venue and concertgoers with a shot of Red Death. B and I strolled over to the bar and placed an order for a pair of them.

"Does that have Jagaermeister in it?" We quickly changed plans. Kamikaze shot, it is.

The bartender placed shot glasses on the counter as she and I chatted about the opening set, the lineup difference and what changes a couple of years could make. It had felt strange to be back here in this environment, with more backstory and knowledge. The headlining band was pretty decent, fun to dance to, and that the lead singer had gone around the club introducing himself was a nice touch.

We turned back to the bar to see three shots waiting patiently. Hmm. A quick glance to the left and we saw the musician who had been filling in for the missing member of the opening band (the band we'd come to see) for the past several weeks. With a smile and an introduction, we offered him the shot. He took it with a smile, we toasted and we tipped them back.

We'd planned on one shot. Single. Solitary. No more for our needing-to-be-up-in-the-morning selves.

But it winds up getting a little hazy from here on in.

Conversation with him was easy. He was outgoing and funny, and we were ready to laugh. When he heard that we weren't new to his temporary bandmates, we began trading anecdotes about shows, musicians we enjoyed, Boston, Vermont, whatever. The conversation became that much easier when he returned the favor and bought the next round. The third round was on me, the fourth was on the other band member who seemed to appear out of nowhere, chat with me briefly and disappear.

By this point, the bartender was serving our shots with large glasses of water. We were goofy drunk, laughing about the lake and the fact that D was quickly becoming one of our favorite members of the band. He needed to become a permanent member, we decided. B marched over to several of the other band members to enlighten them. I remained at the bar, refusing to look at the musician with whom I'd originally hoped to chat. He was the only to not briefly join our little party.

The evening seemed to stretch on for hours upon end until the headlining band wrapped up their epic-length set (we discovered the next day that we drank much faster than we'd thought) and it was time to go. We made our way to the stairs and began to descend when I realized I'd never said goodnight to the musician I'd wanted to talk to. I turned carefully and marched back up the stairs.

(I don't remember this. I was told about it the next day, as we both sipped water, recounted the evening and pieced together the bits we each had forgotten.)

We went back down the stairs and out the door, deciding to go for a walk toward the lake. We changed direction upon realizing it would take quite a walk to get there and instead walked back past the club and toward home. I fell at some point, tearing a small hole in the knee of my jeans that were, from that night on, dubbed Kazi Jeans. We made it back to the apartment mostly intact and collapsed in our respective rooms. The logical action of drinking water was too difficult, so I fell into vodka-soaked sleep knowing it was going to hurt the next morning.

And hurt it did.