At midnight, I finally relaxed.
But on Tuesday night, I finally understood.
Sometime after midnight, I finally pushed aside the covers, grabbed my pillow and dragged myself from our warm bed.
On Thursday night, I finally looked at the spreadsheet, after getting a PDF copy from a friend.
I rarely stay up past 11 p.m. On the wedding night, I finally went back to my room at 1 a.m.
David Ives is a favorite playwright of mine, and at night, I finally made it to his "Venus in Fur" on Broadway.
Last night, I finally asked one of my dinner companions what she thought of Palin, apologizing as I asked, because I assumed it was a question that Alaskans must find wearisome, the way Angelenos tire of being asked about traffic.
You can't carry it, or think about it too much, or it would destroy you all over again.' Later that afternoon, I finally visited the graveyard where Ruby Johnston is buried.
Earlier this week, I wrote about the perception of sushi as a female food among U.S. college students; last night I finally watched "Jiro Dreams of Sushi," David Gelb's documentary about a three-Michelin-star shokunin who has been perfecting his technique for seventy-five years.
