A return.

The clinking of ice into martini glasses, lined up for service, water poured into inverse pyramids to cool, drink orders read at a clip —“Arnold Palmer, no sweetener; 2 Bloody Marys, extra horseradish—espresso and cappuccinos being made at the other end, the hammering of the previous shot’s grounds falling into the knock box, steam rising still, saucers and spoons set to the side, waiters carrying orders behind you, breezing by your back, urgent towards impatient guests outside, Nina Simone on the speakers, conversations wafting in, the conversation happening now between you and the bartender, fourteen months of waiting, of missing this, collected into this moment—at the bar.