Eyes gliding over Juliana if she sits at the bar, curious. Do we know you?

It has begun to rain, suddenly. Neon in rain, dreamy and blurred, beautiful.

Patrick won’t be home yet, probably. Juliana can be a little late returning. If he calls her worriedly, she can answer her cell phone, reassure him she’s all right.

Thinking—Just this once. No harm to it.

Fated, without volition, seeing an empty parking space on Front Street near the Blue Moon. If she’d had to park in the rutted-gravel lot behind the café, she’d have driven home without stopping.

Club soda, she will order. Slice of lemon. Over ice cubes.

Her mouth is dry. Her mouth is parched. Hours on the phone, bright fluorescent lights at the law office, exhausting.

Not vodka. (Never vodka!) Though maybe, if circumstances seem right, a single glass of white wine …

Just to celebrate. Her happiness.

That escape, from the poet. Finding Patrick, who adores her and trusts her absolutely.

And so it has happened, Juliana has parked the car on Front Street. As she enters the Blue Moon Café (for the first time), she feels her pulse quicken—recalling entering such cafés in the past (for the first time), she has embarked upon an adventure, the outcome of which she cannot know.

That is part of the happiness, the not-knowing.

In the window, blue neon, but inside on a wall, red neon lettering—MOLSON’S.

At once Juliana feels at home in the Blue Moon Café. There is even an old jukebox, she is sure that she can play Johnny Cash here. There are well-worn black leather booths, bar stools. The interior isn’t too crowded. Yet not too empty. Another woman, perhaps two women, in one of the booths. Otherwise, all men. At the bar, all men. Eyes move upon her, alert with curiosity, not unfriendly. But no one Juliana will know, no one who knows her.

On one of the walls, framed photographs of high school sports teams. Football, baseball. Local kids now grown up, patrons of the Blue Moon.

No doubt some of these boys are in the Blue Moon tonight. Aging athletes bearing a residue of pride.

Juliana shakes rain out of her hair. Juliana feels ready to laugh, she has no idea why. Sitting at one end of the bar, facing the mirror behind the rows of glittering bottles. Her tote bag, faux gold-glittering, out of the way at her feet, between the legs of the bar stool where she can keep an eye on it unobtrusively.

Politely the bartender greets Juliana; warily he smiles at the solitary young woman who has entered the Blue Moon Café, no one he recognizes.

It is an entirely new place to Juliana—Blue Moon Café. Yet it is utterly familiar. When she uses the women’s restroom, she will recognize the low ceiling, stained sink, exposed plumbing, and uneven tile floor. She will recognize the smells, the mild sour stink, not unpleasant, in an odd way comforting.