Will Return for Fudge

What a difference a day makes.

Last night, I'd had a party in the Bottom. Tomorrow I have a party in northside.

But tonight all I wanted was dinner out before the onslaught of holiday meals at home.

Rappahannock was still too busy to try.

But I'd been wanting to get back to 2113 since they'd changed chefs, so the good news was that while they had a private party going on in the back, the front was open to strays like me and my companion.

The new bartender not only introduced himself but asked our names and used them the rest of the night.

Pleased to meet you.

Tonight's vino was Honoro Vera Monastrelle with a sweet, smoky nose and good value for the money.

One of my favorite things about 2113 had been the music but it was toned down tonight, perhaps in consideration of the staid-looking party in the back.

It was lounge-y, but more downbeat than the last few times I'd been in and frankly, I'd have liked something a little more upbeat.

It is the start of the holiday week, after all.

But at least it wasn't Top 40 or classic rock, so I can only complain so much.

A glance at the menu showed that the focus had changed since I was last in.

Tonight's menu was very safe and not especially creative, although my guess was that it had to do with the party in the back.

Chances were that the menu reflected what was being made for the party goers, so I'll be curious to see the menu post-holidays.

Don't disappoint me, guys.

Tonight's dinner began with a spinach salad with candied walnuts (one of my favorite things), apples and dried cranberries, although the red dressing seemed to be more of a testament to them than any actual berries.

Truth is, all I was focused on was those lovely nuts.

Next came Italian mussels, recommended by our friendly bartender and while, yes, mussels are everywhere, these were especially tasty.

The mussels themselves were a combination of two varieties and the larger ones were so sweet and meaty I may have swooned.

Add to that a bowlful of white wine and butter sauce and we were happily sopping for quite some time.

After finishing the three pieces of bread that came with the dish, the manager stopped by to inquire if more bread was required.

It was.

I think if you're going to serve broth that good, you have to match it with sufficient bread.

As we ate, party stragglers continued to arrive, as did other strays like us, so while the place never got mobbed, we did have company.

Last up was pork tenderloin with tri-pepper wine sauce, asparagus and Brussels sprouts.

See what I mean about safe?

It was not a dish that I would have chosen, but then I hadn't.

We were enjoying our wine, laughing and lingering so long that eventually the chef wandered out and chatted with us.

Or maybe his intent was just to move us along.

The product of a chef father and pastry chef mother, his roots were Italian and he told us about his 86 year old grandmother still making her traditional hard candy every Christmas.

He'd just gotten his annual five pounds, something he and his siblings got every year.

Even better, he scooted back to the kitchen and brought us an array of the candies, each in a distinctive shape (Santa's face, a bell, a wreath) and flavor.

They were exquisite, with flavors of rum or almond and with no cloying sweetness like commercial hard candies.

But a piece of candy does a dessert make, at least to some people, so we ordered the lemon cake with lemon butter cream frosting, drizzled in honey and nuts.

Now we saw the chef's pastry chef mom's influence in the dense, moist cake and delicately lemon frosting.

I found the honey and nuts to push the dessert into cloying territory, but the Italian present begged to differ, proclaiming it a classic Italian sweet.

Before we left, the chef encouraged us to come back in January when his new menu debuts.

He also said he'd have some of his grandmother's homemade fudge to share then.

Now there's an incentive to come back soon.

Emerging on Main Street, it was like a ghost town.

Clearly everyone was at parties or has already left town.

Or the end of the world had finally happened and we'd missed it while sucking on homemade Italian hard candies.

I suppose there are worse ways to go.

And better. Like eating fudge.

Eating Young Buck Style

I've admitted I'm no fan of restaurant week.

It's not that it's not for a good cause (it is), but it's such a crazy time for restaurants (where many of my friends work) and I just prefer not to be part of the madness-generating public.

Which is not to say that I don't like a good deal (I do), even during restaurant week.

Enter 2113.

After a leisurely happy hour on my balcony savoring Borsao Garnacha and the exquisite late October weather, we made a bee line for 2113 and their Wednesday wine 'n dine night.

Unlike a lot of the "cheap date" nights, this one isn't only pasta or foisting a dessert of stale bread (pudding) on you.

Walking in to great music and a half full bar, we decided to take further advantage of the pre-Sandy weather and eat outside on the patio.

The last time we'd tried the patio, there's been no music, but a simple request resulted in a promise of music there.

We took seats on the banquette that lines the wall, amid two dwarf trees that made us feel like we were in a conservatory.

The music was a terrific change from all the innocuous indie music I've been hearing in restaurants lately: kind of lounge-y, sometimes with a good beat and other times just sort of smooth and mellow.

In other words, perfect.

The mild, cloudy night sky was above us and we settled in for a cheap meal par excellence.

Wine is part of the deal (unlike restaurant week), so we chose a bottle of Rockbridge Pinot Noir, a velvety Virginian that was as soft as the night air around us.

For a mere $35 (not the $50.24 of restaurant week, not to mention wine included) you also get to choose two first courses and one main course, all served family style.

My date and I may not be a family, but our appetites could play one on TV.

Sea scallop crudo was thinly sliced scallops with radish slices, fennel pollen, olive oil and lemon.

The fennel and lemon played off each other beautifully with the sweetness of the pollen being cut by the astringency of the lemon.

Next up we got the blistered dates despite having had them before. They're just that good.

Medjool dates with almonds, herbs and lardon sat atop greens with buttermilk dressing.

The thick pieces of lardon brought the salty to the obscenely sweet and rich dates for a match made in heaven.

We may not be one of those, either, but at least we have music and laughter.

Choosing our main course was more problematic.

Although one of the offerings was house made fresh pasta, I am reluctant to eat pasta after having had several sublime varieties so recently in Italy.

I thought the moules frites sounded like just the thing (especially with the fries cooked in beef fat) but my date was feeling fowl.

So on our second date night at 2113, we got the exact same entree we'd gotten the first time we'd done the wine 'n dine night there: herb-roasted half chicken.

The half bird that arrived on the platter was enormous, the skin was crispy and crusted with thyme and it was surrounded by vegetables like carrots and brussels sprouts in an herb butter.

Like last time, we tore into it, first leg and then breast, pulling off skin to eat with my fingers and appreciating how perfectly cooked the veggies were.

And just like last time, we couldn't finish the half a yard bird that had been set in front of us.

It's going to make someone a great lunch tomorrow.

I'd read somewhere that Chef Aaron Hoskins was leaving 2113 at the end of the month so I couldn't resist asking for the story.

Seems Aaron is eager for the next step in his career, hoping to have his own place, of course.

2113 is hoping to replace him with another young buck looking to use 2113 as a stepping stone to his future.

In fact, they foresee an arc of young bucks, each putting in a year before moving on to his or her next dream job.

I know I've loved the food since Aaron's been cooking at 2113, but I will also look forward to seeing what the next young Turk can do in that grooviest of spaces.

The way I see it, the music is distinctive, the place has not a single TV screen, and the space is a conversationalist's dream.

As long as the food coming out of the kitchen continues to impress like it has the last four or five times I've been there, I'm okay with whatever young buck is in the kitchen.

Just one piece of advice, guys: Keep wine 'n dine night.

It's like restaurant week year round, only light years better (and I can still send a check to the food bank).

And I don't have to go anywhere near the madness. Score!

Coo Coo Ca Choo

You just never know how things are going to blow up on you.

One minute I'm walking into 2113 (where they've just added a sinuous partition to separate the dining area from the bar) and the next someone is asking me if I'm with the Ad Club.

As it turned out, I think my friend and I were the only two non-advertising people in the bar for the next hour and a half.

But that was okay because advertising types are a fascinating group to watch network (so much intensity! so much self-awareness!), especially with alcohol.

As non-networking types, my friend and I discussed important topics of our own like how music must never be far away no matter where in your home you are.

She mentioned how tired she is of hearing '90s music everywhere (despite the fact that it's the decade of her youth) now that it's become the new oldies.

It made her feel my pain, that of the multiple decades of old music I've had to endure for years.

As her mother put it, "I never need to hear The Doors again."

Amen, Mom.

When we parted ways, the adsters were in full swing talking to each other while looking around to see who else they needed to connect with.

Walking toward the Poe Museum, a guy said hello and, "I like those shoes."

Diversity Thrift, three bucks, I said, clearly impressing him with what look like espadrille wedges from the '70s.

Since when do men notice shoes?

Tonight was the Poe Museum's monthly Unhappy Hour, an evening of music, drama and film with liberal doses of corny humor, male humor and band humor.

It was a gorgeous night to be in a brick-walled garden inhaling soft, warm air with a nearly full moon above.

Walking into the Poe garden, I saw that Goldrush (all clad in black Kronos Quartet-style) had already begun playing so I found a spot against a curved tree trunk.

When they finished their song, Treesa spotted me and Prabir said hello via the microphone.

"This one's for you, Karen," he said. "This isn't about you, Karen but I wrote it right around that time we discussed this situation and you agreed and I agreed, so here we go."

Let's just say the lyrics had something to do with, "Thank you, thank you, but I am a mess, so thank you."

Ah, yes, that messy period.

"This one's called 'Tyrannasaurus Rex. Ma'am, this is dedicated to you," he said pointing at a woman in the third row. "Nothing personal."

During the song, the Man About Town showed up and when I went to hug him, he lifted me clean off the ground with his bear-like embrace.

An inquiry into his state of being resulted in, "Better now."

With the fountain burbling behind the trio of Goldrush, they played "Eleanor Rigby" before excusing themselves.

"We're going to take a break but stick around and be unhappy," Prabir exhorted.

Why come to Unhappy Hour if not to be maudlin?

Next up was Ryan Lee unburdening his soul with Poe's short story, "The Black Cat," done partly as a dramatization and partly as a reading.

While it was easy to get lost in Poe's language ("Evil thoughts became my soul intimates"), modern reminders abounded.

Motorcycles roared down Main Street. A helicopter whirred overhead. The museum's a/c unit cranked on and off.

Lee's performance ended with him portraying the guilt-ridden murderer of the story, on his knees in the grass and sobbing.

"I hope you're all thoroughly miserable now," the museum's director said afterwards.

I passed the subsequent break discussing with my seatmate hanging heavy winter coats with metaphors about the tensile strength of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Granted, it was more hysterical than unhappy.

Goldrush returned to do "our most macabre song about why you should love people."

I'm not sure how macabre a song called "Kiss and Make Up" can be considered but the crowd went along with it.

"This one's for Karen, so she can have more bass," Prabir said a second time, surprising no one more than me.

A tease of a few notes had my seatmate humming the melody of "Mrs. Robinson" before they launched into a Goldrush standard, "Roll One."

Mid-song, Prabir says, "Here's what you came for," and gestured to Matt who did a very fine upright bass solo.

The song "Don't Worry" had M.A.T. cracking, "That's the Romney/Ryan theme song."

There was a song dedicated to the Indians in the audience ("I guess it's a self-dedication," Prabir cracked only to have a guy yell afterwards, "I'm Hindu!") and a song for Christians.

You know, the classic, "Jesus Christ Loves His Beans and Rice."

It was getting harder and harder to stay in unhappy mode.

Their closer was a rousing and rocking cover of "I am the Walrus" and looking around, I was reminded that after almost 50 years, everyone likes the Beatles.

When they finished, some guys took their place in the center of the garden with what looked like a big, black parachute.

Nope, it was way better - an inflatable movie screen.

That's right, something that inflated in seconds and rather resembled a moon bounce grew right before our very eyes until it was touching tree branches.

"Now it's a party!" Man About Town joked.

Screening was "The Persistence of Poe," a film by Christine Stoddard about the Poe/Richmond connection.

Full of fabulous old black and white photographs of the city in the 19th century, the documentary was still in the "rough cut" stage but I found it full of fun facts about Poe's life.

When the film mentioned Poe's first love, the older Elmira, my companion leaned in and murmured, "Mrs. Robinson."

Clearly we had a motif going.

When the film ended, it wasn't like the house lights were going to come up so everyone sat there momentarily.

I mentioned that I thought we should hang around and watch the screen deflate.

"I don't want to talk about deflation," M.A.T. quipped.

Not at middle age anyway, I responded.

"Touche!" he roared, throwing back his head and laughing his distinctive laugh.

The museum's director instructed us all to come back in October for the next unhappy hour.

"Next month's theme is 'The Mask of the Red Death,' so everyone will be dropping like flies," he deadpanned.

I can hardly wait for the misery of it all.

Seeking Same

I figured I'd see a lot of my people tonight.

After all, if I go to the only restro-lounge in town, aren't I likely to see other enthusiastic eaters and loungers?

2113 had its usual orange, cool vibe presence when we arrived to music pulsing and a lively mostly male crowd.

Sliding in, we rearranged stools to put two together.

Conveniently, they were pouring Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, meaning low-alcohol, but with far more fruit (not to mention a lovely pink color) than a typical Vinho Verde, along with the usual effervescence.

When I was given free rein to order, I couldn't resist ordering the kinds of dishes my companion didn't used to eat.

Say, pan-fried sweetbreads with sweet carrot and a Grenoblaise sauce, the portion so generous as to be startling or the beets with duck confit with a superb smoked balsamic vinaigrette that made the dish.

Someone's been having a ball with his smoker and the result was stellar.

A guy nearby noticed me and asks if we hadn't met. And it wasn't a line.

We had met at Patrick Henry's over a year ago and talked food and restaurants all evening.

Coincidentally, we did the same tonight.

Bypassing the dessert with tobacco-flavored cotton candy, we got vanilla and olive oil parfait with chocolate crumbles for our last course.

I'm definitely seeing an uptick in 2113's food quality and execution.

Now if only I could see more people coming in for the lounge portion of the equation.

But I couldn't be part of that group tonight because Balliceaux was calling.

Walking in to a mostly full room, I was happy to see a friend and her cute husband in attendance.

She's usually the early-to-bed type, but tonight she'd been to a work function and had a Tall Boy so was enjoying herself immensely now.

Someone noted that the crowd was heavily male and a look around confirmed that.

I believe the technical term is "sausagefest."

There were lots of musicians at the show, so there would have been a serious hardship to the local scene if Balliceaux had gone up in a puff of smoke tonight.

I saw the scientist, who only stayed long enough to say hello and catch up with people.

Every time I turned around to face Dave Watkin's swirling light show, there was a familiar face.

The organizer. The (tardy) photographer.

The former prickly and now sunny one.

The WRIR DJs. The former co-worker. The beer geek.

The expectant singer adjusting to the limitations of pregnancy. The friend who came with his Zep bandmates.

A drummer who just got back from South Africa so we could dish on that subject together.

I even did some Replacements matchmaking.

Simply put, the place was crawling with my people.

White Laces was doing their record release show and DJ Ohbliv was opening.

I'd heard him before and been impressed with his knob turning and mashups so I was unprepared when I overheard a guy observe to his friends, "He's not very good at changing songs. Doesn't he know transitions?"

Clearly he was not getting the point.

Meanwhile, my cute friend laughed at his ignorance and danced on.

The room was full of energy and packed by the time White Laces started playing.

Oh, sure, some of it was the "pretty people" kind.

You know, those people who stand around shouting and laughing loudly while the band tries to play over them.

But a lot of the energy was also the fan variety where people just wanted to listen to a band that keeps sounding better and better with each performance.

All four members are terrific musicians and with each show I see, they push their dynamic range a bit further.

Unfortunately, by the end of their set, my girlfriend was ready to push some of the pretty people in the face.

Not me.

I wouldn't want to risk knocking them into my people.

My Weekend Opening Ceremonies

If I should have been home watching the Olympics, no one told me that.

So naturally I wasn't spending my Friday night in front of the TV (not that I have one).

Scene 1, in which I watch the chaos that is preparation for a bridal dinner party at 27.

The mother of the groom arrives less than an hour before the dinner with sixty little boxes of chocolates inscribed with the happy couple's name and instructs the staff how and where they are to be placed.

Good luck with a mother-in-law like that, honey.

Meanwhile a friend of the sous chef stops by, making a hell of a fashion statement.

"Anyone ever tell you that you look like an extra from Mad Max?" he is asked to make a point.

Taking it as a compliment, the guy responds, "No, no one, but that's awesome!"

Moral: be careful who you insult obliquely for they may hear a compliment.

Scene 2, in which we take shelter from the storm.

With a fierce-looking storm about to break overhead, we scuttled up to Amuse for their panoramic window views.

Dark clouds loomed, fading sun outlined the windblown trees and rain fell without us even noticing.

The balcony was understandably closed and the bar was three deep. Half of RVA, it seemed, was at Amuse.

We established a beach head at the far end next to the absinthe drip (foreshadowing) and ordered a bottle of Urban Uco Torrontes.

I promised the Viognier lover that it would deliver a floral nose, a hint of sweetness and a refreshing finish and did it ever.

Friends who are leaving for Las Vegas Sunday joined us for spirited discussion of the virtues of Neil Young ("Why doesn't he do Canadicana instead of Americana?"), how the Byrds went country and the eternal question, Rubber Soul or Revolver.

Noshing selection was left to me and I chose rabbit pate with apricot, dill pickle slices and pickled turnip on crostini.

Even he who hadn't had rabbit or turnips was impressed with the earthy pate.

We'd come to say farewell to a friend and favorite bartender who eventually joined us on the fun side of the bar.

Absinthe drips were prepared, arriving unusually dark green, a sure sign that a generous drip had been poured.

There really is nothing like the feel of absinthe as the green fairy winds its way through your veins.

Before long, texts were arriving demanding to know why I wasn't at my next stop so we break camp for new adventures, the bartender and I.

Scene 3, in which we did not sample Shockoe.

The bartender and I drove down to the Bottom to meet a friend at 2113 and between it being a restro-lounge and tonight being part of Sample Shockoe, we expect a Friday night mob scene.

Instead, it is seven people at a bar and dance music pumping loudly.

Our waiting friend glares at me for my tardiness and I order a Don Julio.

Nearby, a trio is discussing ex-wives although they don't look like the ex-wives types. But then, who does?

We talk about the local dining scene until we decide we want some food and exit stage right.

Scene 4, in which we discuss religion on a deserted street.

Arriving in Carytown, we head to Don't Look Back, where I run into a bast from my past.

He sits down next to me with an enormous grin on his face, clearly surprised to see me there.

When I meet his girlfriend, she is full of compliments and already knows things about me.

Moments later, one in our group gives DLB the thumbs down (the bass is loud and thumping) and we proceed up Cary Street.

It's not that late and yet nothing much is open. But the heat is absent and the night feels cool and lovely.

We pass a couple where he is telling her about how awesome the food at the Eatery is and the three of us laugh over the dirty grease smell that defines the Eatery.

Nearly at the end of Carytown, we finally stop at Doner Kebab when we see the vertical spits with meat on them.

It was as if a chorus of angels suddenly began singing hallelujah.

Inside the brightly-lit and tiny restaurant, we order two shawarmas: one chicken, one beef/lamb, both on fresh pita bread with creamy yogurt sauce.

We take the food outside to a table to ravage it.

I taste the intensely-flavored chicken variety my bartender friend has ordered and am an immediate Doner devotee.

The patient one and I share the overstuffed beef/lamb shawarmas, with me handing it back to him with lipstick on it.

It's a good friend who will eat your lipstick prints.

Once our Turkish fast food has hit our stomachs, we all feel full of life again and conversation ensues.

As a group of women in head scarves ate nearby and couples came and went with food, we inexplicably found ourselves knee-deep in a discussion of Catholicism versus Protestantism.

Organized religion versus individual spirituality.

Literal bible reading versus interpretation.

As a card-carrying heathen at a table with a Christian-raised man who's done missionary work and an Indian-born man who labels himself neither an atheist nor an agnostic, but with a profound doubt about a higher being, it was fascinating.

Fortunately for us, Doner is open until 3 a.m. so we sat there in the light of the spit trying to unravel life's mysteries until about 2:15.

Scene 5, in which I hugged a friend not knowing when I will see him again

I knew once we left I had to drop off my departing friend and say one last goodbye. He moves halfway across the country in a week.

But if ever there was a satisfying final night with a friend, this had been it.

Hmm, I wonder how things went with the Olympics.

Eating Feet and Feeling Groovy

Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to send up the bat signal to find me.

That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.

They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.

But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.

Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.

It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.

You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.

So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.

Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.

Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.

The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.

We finished with a cream puff  to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.

Clearly opposites attract.

A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.

On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.

"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."

Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.

So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.

Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.

Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.

He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.

"No, you won't," she clarified.

Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.

White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.

White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.

The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.

My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.

Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.

"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.

Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.

Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.

But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.

First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.

When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.

Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.

Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).

Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).

And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.

"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.

Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.

When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.

Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.

I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.

I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.

Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.

Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.

My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.

Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."

Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.

On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.

The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.

They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.

Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.

The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.

Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.

And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.

Because that's what girlfriends do.