Surely you can, if only a little. Deep in the voids between clumps of shoveled snow, it is there–a vibrant blue like the Caribbean sea (in the pictures I have seen).
A mystery to me, but I will take it as a sign. A sign that the snow I shoveled will soon melt and become beautifully clear water in which ducks returning twelve at a time will swim away warm days and cool nights, as we rest our backs after a winter of too much shoveling.
Friday brings Mahar’s to mind, but it is gonxe. The new owners are gutting the place now. We went to the Orchard earlier in the week. Been there 110 years and still a very swell place. I went twice, actually. I am perpetually and unavoidably early, so I had twenty minutes to kill before I picked up Lacey from work. Rather than sit in her parking lot, I dropped into the Orchard for a little recon. Had a drink, paid up, thanked the keep and scooted to Lacey’s, arriving two minutes late. How chic! As we covered the three blocks between her work and the Orchard (just off the route home), I asked if she would enjoy stopping for a drink, and suggested the Orchard (not letting on I had just visited). Always up for an adventure with cocktails, we were soon walking through the door. How do you know a barkeep is a keeper? He looked surprised to see me (again so soon) but caught himself immediately and said only “Welcome!” or some such thing–not letting on that I had been there ten minutes earlier. A keeper of secrets, he is. I won’t need those services (I disclosed my secret to Lacey just as we sat down), but it is the right way for him to behave.
As I was shoveling this morning, a gentleman I had often seen at Mahar’s walked passed. I asked him if he missed Mahar’s (he does) and where he will go now. He didn’t have any good ideas, so I wanted to mention the Orchard. Instead, cursed be my brain, I said we had tried Thatcher’s and liked it very much. That was true, we had recently tried it, but I didn’t mean to mention Thatcher’s. Thatcher’s is unique, see. It has a thing, and its thing is female bartenders wearing not enough clothing. Although I am a big fan of women and want very much to enjoy them underdressed in person, more often than not I can’t. It feels wrong. True this time, as I could barely look at the bartender to order. Probably for the best. Anyway, the neighbor played it cool, but I wonder what he thinks of me dropping a recommendation for Thatcher’s at 6:30 in the morning. Strike one?
Things were so much easier when we didn’t have to think about where to go.