She’s in bed, sleeping. Dog, too. It was a long week for all of us.
I’m up, reading a book. Something about the economy. It’s surprisingly quiet here, perched atop a hill in the middle of the city, save for the occasional trolley bell and the fairly incessant woodwind hum of a nearby hotel doorman’s taxi whistle. It’s Friday night, after all.
When we moved here nine months ago, I had this idea that by now I’d know each cable car operator’s distinctive staccato, and that when they rang the bell as they hauled past our apartment window I’d say, “Oh, there goes Ken!” or “Sounds like Leo today!”
But I don’t. I don’t know those guys or anyone else here. The city can be impenetrable, especially if you have an underdeveloped social instinct. It’s crammed full of people, and you rarely see the same face twice. If you want to make friends, you have to make an impression, and that’s not easy when your natural inclination is to sit in the corner like a potted plant and just observe.
On the other hand, at least there’s plenty to watch.
I watch it mostly with her. And the dog. Not sure I need much else, really.
Certainly not after a long week.
So I’m just sitting here, reading my book. Sipping a cocktail. And, yet, somehow — probably because it’s Friday night — I feel oddly like there’s something wrong with me that I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I wouldn’t, though. For the first time in 43 restless, ridiculous years, I can honestly say I wouldn’t.