I stagger through the door, clinking with two carrier bags of bottles. Spirits. Some are started, brought from my place; some I’ve bought special. “Cocktails,” is how I greet you. “Okay,” you agree. I lay out what we’ve got, from advocaat to Zinfandel, which I admit I only bought because I didn’t know a spirit beginning with z to fit that joke. It’ll go for sangria. You like sangria? I start mixing some up, handing you some oranges and apples to slice.