I snuck in the back door. De-toqueing and de-snowing myself, unseen.
Mark faced away. Tall, wiry, and newly goateed.
There was a table here, then. Several tables. It was Vittoria Trattoria and I’d been lining up regularly for breakfast, coffee and pesto pasta since long before the tables had arrived.
Collecting memories of the twenty-something me.
In the fifteen and a half years since that first date, we’ve enjoyed breakfasts, desserts, lattés — and then burgers, bruschettas and goblets of wine — here. I’ve tipped baby Bayla upside down to dislodge solids. We’ve celebrated report cards with Luba. We’ve been silly with friends.
It’s where we rang in Mark’s forties.
Today it sits empty. Awaiting rebirth.
And we’re watching. Just like that twenty-something me, peeking past the papered windows, exactly twenty years ago. Hoping its rebuilt self is friendly, affordable and fabulous.
We’ve got lots more great memories to make. We’d love to make some here.