A dinner in a cellar afterwards. A babygirl colleague gets into a skirmish with a waiter and is asked to leave. She does not know yet, but an innocent episode would change into a personal drama when she’s reported and her promotion is halted the next day.
A small loyal party is leaving the restaurant with her.
As we sit under a pergola in a pub nearby, the weather changes. Phones start a sinister beeping all around. A government alert. Last time I got one of those, it was in Vegas; a violent sandstorm was shattering windows and glass doors across the city. This time around, it’s a flood warning.
Lightning is crossing the skies, yet the mood is great. Leaving in a downpour before midnight to catch my flight at six in the morning, only to learn it’s cancelled. So is the next one. I’m leaving the city after noon.
A single person died in those heavy floods, I learn while taking a walk on a Croatian coast. A colleague of mine. A statistic gets personal in a flash. I know his wife, I know the story. Fuck.
It seemed so ordinary, just a storm, right?
There are dramas — and dramas.
Landing in Warsaw and dining with corporate folks when I get a phone call from an old flame. Satisfying?
More flights, more meetings, more corporate scum. It doesn’t matter.
A few directors have left the company. My stock has vested. I’m playing badminton and renovating the weekend house, soaking in the rays of Indian summer.
I’m hugging my beloved when I meet her in the kitchen every morning. Touching her hand when we’re falling asleep.
I’m content.
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