The Solo Table

June twenty-eighth. I've walked past the stairs to that rooftop bar at least a dozen times. Always on the way to something else, always with a vague note in the back of my mind that I should go sometime, not now, not alone. Last Friday I went alone. On purpose. Not because I had plans that fell through or because I was in the neighborhood and it seemed efficient, because I woke up that morning and thought: I want to see the city from up there, and there's no reason to wait for company.

I got there early enough that only a few tables were taken. I asked for a table by the railing. The host didn't even blink, just handed me a menu, and I sat down and looked at the city and ordered a glass of white wine and did not pull out my phone for about eight minutes, which is honestly the longest I've gone in recent memory. The skyline was doing that summer evening thing where the buildings go amber before the sky does, and the string lights overhead were just starting to matter. I'd been meaning to see this exact thing for two years.

came for the view. stayed for the second glass.

At some point I asked the couple at the next table if one of them would take a photo for me, the kind where you're actually in it rather than implied by your bag. The woman said sure, handed her partner her wine glass, and got it in one try. I thanked her and looked at the photo and it was exactly right: me at the railing, looking out, the city doing what it does. I stayed for two hours. I had a second glass. I didn't rush.

I've been thinking about the work-tab question a lot lately, the closing of it, the way the answer was just quietly there once I stopped refreshing the page. This felt like the same motion in a different key. The rooftop was always available. The solo table was always an option. I just had to stop waiting for the conditions to be right and go sit in the chair. The conditions were fine. The conditions were, honestly, excellent.