There Was No Seat for Me at the Luxury Restaurant. By Dessert, They Regretted It

slick and turned the downtown street into a painting of itself — smeared and luminous and more honest than the room I had just left. I crossed to O’Sullivan’s without looking back at Elmeander, and the propped door opened around me and the smell arrived all at once: warm wood, old brass, onions, something frying, spilled beer absorbed into decades continue reading …