As they stepped out into the cool night air, the neon signs of the theater district blurred into a kaleidoscope of color. Julian felt a familiar spark. He wasn't going to write about the club's decor or the celebrity sightings. He was going to write about the art of being present.
"You’re thinking about the lead for Sunday’s column," Elena said, her eyes twinkling over the rim of her martini.
He sat at his usual corner booth—dark mahogany and worn leather—swirling a glass of neat rye that caught the amber glow of the vintage lamps. Tonight wasn't a work night, which made the entertainment all the more sweet. Across from him sat Elena, a woman whose laugh still had the power to make him forget his deadline-driven heart.
"Good night, Julian," Elena said, squeezing his hand before her car arrived. "Find your lead?"