August 8, 2003
After listening to Neil Gaiman read from his new book and waiting too many hours in line to watch him sign my copy, I take myself to dinner. As I sit alone in a decent French bistro within the glare of lights at the site of the World Trade Center, I silently take inventory of my life. I have not been in this neighborhood for two years, deliberately. Drinking a very subtle and pleasing red wine with hints of freshly turned loam, raspberries and coffee, I think of absent friends. Helene would love this place; Thela would love the wine.