The starchy white linen cloths covering the tables are fighting an inconsistent breeze that is annoying the street. Tall bland canyons of office blocks seem to be positioned in such a way that it’s always windy here. Hence the name, I guess. Still, it’s bright and warm enough for this time of year, and the scurries of brown leaves chasing the traffic offer me something to look at as I wait.
I nurse my beer and make it last. I’ve got to watch myself these days at lunchtimes. Alcohol and I have always been buddies, but only on each other’s terms. My agreement is to drink some of it and stop, especially this early in the day. Alcohol’s deal is not to pursue it when I’ve decided to stop. In general, it works on both sides. Anyway, I want to savor every moment while I’m with her at last.
She’s dashing across the road, avoiding the lanes of traffic, impatient as they are. She looks both ways, even though it’s all moving in one direction. It’s a one-way street, the thought of which makes me laugh a little to myself, for the irony of our meeting after all this time. . .
You must be logged in to post a comment.