Out of the darkness and the mist, around midnight, comes a 30 something mustached man in a striped T-shirt and wooden clogs (no socks). He asks about us, I convince him I'm in advertising. Chloe starts telling her favorite story about how she's a militant feminist working undercover as a runway model trying to fight the industry's obsession with anorectic teenagers.
He asks polite questions and refers to articles in The New Yorker but the remains of his South Dakota accent give him away: he's this city's equivalent to Los Angeles' "waiter/actor". When I reach for his hand underneath the table it's for a single reason only: the hope that it will somehow get back to Henry so that he'll know how easily I could come to belong to someone else.
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