As I waited in the lobby, I realized this was a Restaurant. Not any restaurant, but a Restaurant. The low ceilings, dark paneling, and dim lights whispered, “sw–aaaaaank…” I observed the others. Men in gray pinstriped suits at the bar drinking martinis with olives, not twists. Lanky women with hair done just so and meticulously applied bright lipstick. Bartenders in perfectly pressed shirts, black vests, and snappy bow ties. I felt like a little girl watching her mom host a party, wanting to be invited, but sensing I didn’t quite belong. My companion arrived and led me through the posh. In a matter of moments, we were the ones in the corner booth by the fire, laughing heartily over chilled drinks and catching up on news of recent months. We were Patrons at the Restaurant.

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