I clutch my umbrella as I trod down the wet sidewalk. I’ve forgotten how persistently damp spring on the east coast can be. Living in the sunny southwest, I’ve been spoiled with the subtle luxury of a life without nor’easters. I wince as a blast of wind driven drizzle slaps me on the face. Mercifully, my intended refuge lies a half block ahead. A lively restaurant with warm light spilling out into the misty gloom of the deepening evening. I shake the wet droplets off my umbrella, deftly close it, and walk in.
I am met by bright, warm light and a cacophony of voices. This seems to be a popular haunt judging from the crowd. A long wooden bar dominates the left side of the space, while the dining room permeates the remainder. I ask the host if I can sit at the bar; a bored nod and a wave of a hand was my affirmative response. I head to the back corner of the bar, a quiet perch that allows me to see much of the restaurant. I settle myself on the barstool and order a drink. A no-frills gin and tonic. I’m in a mood for a bit of somberly frustrated introspection.