Last Paragragh of Something That Has No First Paragraph

Unlike other nights, when bravado took hold, Michael lowered himself into one of the many waiting cabs that lined up outside the bars. He said goodbye to his friend, his drinking companion, by a casual, almost non-existent wave. It was cool—the weather—the way he’d like it to be, every night and every day, if it were up to him. He zipped up his jacket and leaned into the seat. The last drink began to kick in, as last drinks often do, just as he began to forget that there was ever a last drink. It climbed up his legs, warmed his pelvis, skipped his stomach and held, with firm hands, his fluttering heart. The last stop was his heavy head, which the liquor made light. He put his forehead against the car window and looked out at the scenery. Deserts are black and null in the night and he imagined he was in his room, in his bed, under his blanket. The thoughts and ideas he so passionately spoke of earlier in the evening, turned to fluid and evaporated into nothing. Looking out, instead of looking in, he felt rested and secure and, much to the cabbie’s annoyance, fell asleep a few miles before the final destination.