<p><b>champagne</b>, n.</p><p>You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I’ve forgotten—is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what’s going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing’s going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday morning with champagne.</p><p>You touch the bottle to my leg—I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in your other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of Kleenex, the tumbler of water.</p><p>‘The thing about champagne,’ you say, unfoiling the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, ‘is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it’s celebration, so there’s no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you’re sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time.’</p><p>You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour.</p><p>‘But why?’ I ask as you hand me my glass.</p><p>You raise yours and ask, ‘Why not? What better way to start the day?’</p><p>We drink a toast to that.</p>