'Luft' was the name of the bar, just around the corner and if you sneaked up to the always locked roof, like Sylv did all the time, you could spot the neon sign; written in a cursive font.

The overhead halogens were all on, and when my entrance was announce by the chirp of the overhung little bell, it disappeared almost instantly by the hush focus in the room.

Beside the bar, the front booth were occupied by a trio. The three girls with huddled heads seemed too engrossed into the secret of the talk, not sipping and just mouthing words.

"It's Thursday."

"Yeah?"

"Davies? It's Thursday."

"I am aware of that, Georgie."

"I thought you didn't go out on Thursdays. Like—like, it's some sort of 21st, modern vampire thing."

I waited for Georgie's chuckle to subside. In the midst of everything, everything little and big, there was a slither of happiness in hearing Georgie chortle; his nicotine pierced throat heavily breathing in and out.

"No. It's usually work—"

"Work. Yeah, I know. I can exactly remember you telling me not to serve ya' anything. Especially on Thursday nights."

"Yeah, that's me."

"Sylvie even told me to drive you out, because breaking habits ain't such a good thing."

In the pause, we both were thinking about Sylvia and momentarily, I wished Georgie wouldn't ask me about her.

"Say Davies, where's Sylvie? I haven't seen her in like—in ages."

"Hmm?"

"She used to love coming here. Especially on a Thursday. Seen her lately?"

"Oh, yeah. I haven't. She'll—she'll be back in a bit."

That's the one false sentence a writer like Sylvia wrote, because there's that little voice that everyone has in their heads; told me that she had no intention of becoming the returning 'Prodigal Son'.

"What? Did something happen? Did you two—"

Georgie went silent because his eyebrows were keen to shoot out in some questionable angle for inquiry.

"What? No, no! Nothing like that. She just—"

"She just . . what?"

His eyebrows were becoming comprehensible then, since they were inquiring about some romance in bloom.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any seed planted.

Blossom wasn't sitting anywhere near the distant future.

"You know the kind? The ambitious one? She just . . . found a lighthouse to chase after. For now. You—you know, the ambitious kind of people."

"What? You mean, you?"

The feeble resistance of shaken heads and barely audible "No" were left unattended in the boom of Georgie's New York laughter.

Fully blasting; the type that someone only born and bred in the Big Apple could execute.

"Say, you heard about the suicidal guy?"

"Heard about it?"

"You didn't? It's all over the block! Some damn kid tried to off himself."

"Yeah? What happened?"

I asked, feeling zoned out in the mismatched mixture of thoughts.

"Thank God he's alive! That poor idiot. What I heard, he lives somewhere near. Say, you don't know him, do ya?"

"Know him? That . . . guy's on my 6th floor!"

"You know him? You know Bill?"

"I wish I didn't! He's ruining my Thursday night. All the people of New York is on stamping around on my ceiling."

"Jesus! Some luck that kid's got. Huh?"

I wanted to say, "Some bad jumping skills." from all the rumors that I unintentionally heard about his poor free fall onto the fire escape.

Sylvia would laugh, then go into analytics and back to some leftover smirking.

Goergie would squint with spread lips and an uncomfortable expression, as a response.

"Yeah, kid's got luck."

'And a lot of friends and relatives.' I thought to myself.

"Well, I'm glad the people from Social are doing what they are doing. Now, of all times. You can never tell who's sad or not. Especially, with these kids."

"Is that all this muck about?"

I nodded, over his shoulder at an angle where a light blue poster was framed and hung on the back wall.

'Talk about it?' was written in the modern text message format where the words were snug in that message bubble of a cell phone.

Under it, 'Better Help' was stamped in an equally refreshing green with the usual helplines digits on full display.

The website address looked ant sized, from that distance.

"Yeah, it's called Blah Therapy . . . or something. No, wait. Yeah, it's called Blah Therapy."

"Well, what does it do?"

"Well, you come here and sit down and talk to people about your problems."

"People—you mean, friends, right?"

"Yeah, friends. But then, most of the people who come here to talk don't really have that much friends or good ones. So, they sit down and have a heart to heart."

At this point, whatever thought of going back to my apartment and towering over the drafting board with the intention to create any masterpieces were thrown out.

"To who? Just—just random people?"

"Strangers, yeah. People meet new people all the time."

"Strangers? Absolute strangers? Faces you've never seen before?"

"Well, Frankie, if you put it like that, then it sounds scary. But, you know, strangers are easy to talk to. People talk to me all the time."

"Georgie, you own this bar. Barmen are trusted people. They call you a cab when you are down and out. People don't just—just open up to some other, unknown . . . people."

"They kinda do, Davies. I mean, this has been going on for the last month and I already saw people make really good friends over the weeks, you know?"

"What do you mean 'this has been going on for the last month'?"

I wasn't really worried about Georgie or his café since he existed in business, with all the dangers involved and survived long before my existence.

But that extra touch of worry, a flair in the brows that scream a type of affectionate concern; skeptical eyes and that taken aback dispositions are heavy signs of anxiety for someone.

I wouldn't call that acting. Not even adulterated distress.

It was a part of spontaneous reaction that I thought people loved to see, especially when the instant response was towards them.

It was implemented in me, in one way or another.

Maybe, it was that evident part of projection. A type of care that you wanted for yourself, so you practiced it in the hope of being treated with the same sentiment.

"Well, the guys from Social came and they had a drink, asked how was the business and I said it was fine."

"Yeah? What then?"

"And, then one of them asked, the girl, which night was slow for me and I said Thursday because of the whole—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And?"

"And, they asked if I would be alright if they brought people over and you knew—talked with themselves about problems and such and—"

"And, you just said yes?"

"You say like it's a bad thing, Davies."

That New York chuckle came back and hindered my maneuver.

"Alright. Did they cut you a deal or something? Talk finance. What are you getting out of this?"

"What deal? It's a bar. Not a party place for rent. Besides, business's better than before."

"But, the finance—"

"People come and drink all the time! Now, the crowd's heavier than any other Thursday. You don't know how alcohol is so necessary in emotional venting."

"I'll bet. So, everything's fine?"

"Yeah, you worry too much, Frankie. That's why Sylvie liked coming here on Thursday. She'd be busy all the time. Talking and drinking. Even past midnight."

"Meeting new people?"

"You bet! You'll never see her sitting alone. She'll be busy saying hello to everyone."

Maybe, that's how she met her new Lighthouse. Some man, or some other woman who's more intriguing in the scale of interest and no one even had to blow a whistle. And she's off.

" . . . and, speaking of sitting alone. Why don't you go and say hello?"

"What?"

On the furthest side of the bar, where the straight line curved towards the back door; the red overcoat was sitting alone on a stool.

Slumped with her fingers on the rim of the glass.

Smoothening the top over and over again whilst the coaster gathered the runaway dews.

"No."

"Come on! Davies!"

"Nah, it's fine."

"Yeah, it's alright. Just go over and say hello!"

"I think she's already having a bad night."

"Exactly my point."

"No, I mean to say that, she's already having a bad night. There's no need to make it any worse."

"Oh, come on. What are you even gonna do here, anyways?"

"It is Thursday night, Georgie."

"You gonna go back to work? I thought the whole of NY is running around on your roof."

"Um . . that's—I'd rather talk to you, Georgie."

"I'm leaving in 15 minutes."

"No, you are not."

"Yes, I am."

I would pursue this angle of Georgie's leaving but on that night, I didn't since there's already a resurfacing thought of missing company.

That little scratch of neediness I'd feel every Thursday because work's done for the week and the only thing to occupy your mind and not think about the elephant in the room was to sketch.

Draw something in graphite and call it my masterpiece so the emptiness is delayed for a fair little bit.

That wasn't happening either.

"Come on. I never see you with anyone. Well, anyone except Sylvie and she ain't here so . . . "

"I still think it's a bad idea."

"Then, stop thinking about it. Davies! Come on! She had enough club soda to get drunk on it. Besides, Sylvie loves connecting with people. You're like her, aren't you? You'll enjoy it."

"You sure?"

"Come on! You're a nice guy. I'll vouch for it. Besides, no one sits alone on a Thursday. In my bar."