The other night, on our way to the bar, my friend and I passed a house that had out front, as part of its Christmas decorations, one of those nativity scenes where the figures and the animals are made of a plastic mold that is lit from within by a bulb you cannot see, but that you know must be there, for the way it enlivens the colors on the surface, and draws your attention in the dark, though we didn’t stop, but kept on going, intent as we were on convincing each other of the opinions we held in a debate we were having, about one subject or another, though a few hours later, once we’d finished drinking, and happened to pass through that neighborhood again, on our way to an entrance to the subway, we stopped for a minute and looked at the scene, which was pleasant to stand beside, and regard without hurry, though we couldn’t think of anything to say, for we’d spent ourselves in conversation, though my friend made me laugh when he reached out and touched the donkey’s face.