…A writer. An editor. Someone whose work was pretty well received over the years.
I am not simply the invisible hostess who seated you in a booth, then moved you to a bigger one in a closed section, just to be nice and make your lunch a happier and more comfortable one, when your party grew too big for the first booth.
I, too, used to “lunch” during the week.
For one awful, insecure second, I wanted to say all of that to the easily recognizable international news correspondent who came in today.
But I didn’t, of course, and said instead to one of my other favorite downstairs bartenders, “Did I ever tell you I used to be a writer and an editor?”
He smiled, nodded. He couldn’t have cared less.
Which made me care less, too.