#133
Me: Just myself.
She gestures behind her.
Her: There’s always space at the bar.
The bar is studded with parties of one. Individuals. Singles implies that we are sad and lonely, and none of us give off that impression. Someone has a book. One is counting cash. Two others are finishing their meal while typing on a phone with one hand. We’re all drinking.
The tables that are full of diners also are full of coffees, whiskies; after dinner things. The bar tenders are busy wiping down bottles. Washing glasses. Tidying up.
I know this place. It’s a trusted spot on a night when nothing else can be trusted. It is familiar. I know what’s good. What to avoid.
Me: It’s the only place I can eat and not feel like I’m imposing on someone.
Bartender: That’s good to hear.
I don’t impose. I’m not asked to leave after a certain amount of time. There is no quick turn. It’s all white table clothes, uniforms, service that isn’t rushed, pushy, or overly friendly. There is no introduction of who the server will be tonight or what the specials are or if I have allergies or, or, or any of the other things that we’re usually plied with in dining spaces. The portions are fair. The service is on point. The atmosphere is kind, gentle. No tv’s, light music, warm lamps.
Outside after the meal, after the whiskey and the check. After the kitchen closed and the bartenders started to shift into high gear to get going. We’re outside. The air is dry, the night is warm.
Later, at home, I’ll finish off the dregs of the bottle of red that I’ve been nursing for three days and take the dog around the block and see a tarantula walking across the sidewalk.