Soon it will be dusk, then dark again. Always the loneliest part of the day to me, that painful, slowly descending interval before the night ultimately comes down. What the French call l’heure bleue, a time of rare conviviality, gaiety, bonhomie—things all lost to me in this place—people eagerly planning, over apéritifs, their evening rounds—carousal, rendezvous, dalliance—bright lively figures, tingling with anticipation, surging forth upon the boulevards, shimmering in the public dark, their reflections wavering in puddles of light.
