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My friend and my other friend were going on and on about the ridiculousness of real estate in the city, the impossibility of ambition in the face of so much economic difficulty, the brokering of power and the abuses wielded by the wealthy. I wasn’t so much listening as I was witnessing, nothing to insert into these obvious topics and I wasn’t being asked questions anyway so I sat there like a fool while my mind constructed another plane, a moving topography of uneven grass, moss covered walls that rose and fell to make an indeterminate labyrinth, twinkling moving lights and tilting earth – a teletubby world I guess only more jagged, pulsing and alive. I felt myself breathing in the chair, smaller than I actually am, ageless and heavy but also empty, like a subway station at night you don’t get off at. Out of the shadows on the street side of the window, left to right, C strode by, shrouding herself in an ivory colored scarf, at a pace that signaled – I’m going home. I sensed the sweep of her pass but only recognized her at the tail end when she turned and glanced into the restaurant, maybe to see but probably sensing being seen, and I locked in on her sucked out cheeks, dark concavities that gave maturity and pain to her face despite often being cast as golden and carefree. She’s beautiful I thought as she moved out of the frame. Most people forget she’s Latina but I don’t.