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I decided to walk to the bar. We had chosen a different location to fit the weather. The park would not pair with the nippy air that Mexico City delivered that evening. Instead, we were going to meet inside a cozy bar. I chose to walk to this cozy bar. I decided between two trousers and chose the more fitted one. It fit well with my old military jacket with its pronounced collar.
I put on my nice shoes. They were made of a brown leather that had an age to them. They had marched through the salty, snowy streets of Chicago for two years under the care of a careless owner. Still, they had character to them. They had aged quite elegantly and I brought them to explore Mexico City with me. I put them on and began walking through the quiet streets of a post-pandemic Mexico. In that moment I felt like a middle aged man. My worn leather dress shoes clacked on the cobblestone path. In silence and in anticipation, I walked to meet a woman I met on a distant mountain.
The bar was empty. It was an attractive bar. It was going for the atmosphere of a shadowy jazz bar. It was going for a bar that dripped with the glamour and sexuality of the past. Though I generally enjoy these types of bars, this one had a bit of a problem. It was a bar on the corner of a street with large lovely windows. The outside world flooded into the bar destroying any illusion of a shadowy speakeasy.
It can be like that on dates, can’t it? On a first date, one creates a story for oneself. But then there are maybe small incongruences in the world you’ve projected that betray the mess underneath.