First lines of the novel I shamefully failed to write today:

"He awoke, feeling like Lazarus, back from the dead, as though he'd spent the evening dancing across the River Styx, and somehow survived--the protagonist of a postmodern novel, impossible to retell.

She lay beside him, still, sleeping in the morning light, smelling of used gin and cigar ash. The distance between them could not be bound by their king-sized bed. The world outside their apartment window was abuzz with the throbbing thrum of sirens…”