For sure, this part is too fanciful, perhaps too magical, for any FBI field report. Sometimes, and it used to be more frequent, I like to disappear. Say a meeting ended earlier than expected, and I wasn’t required to be anywhere at the moment. I could call, say the office, say my wife, Sandra, or my hard-knuckle partner, Lola. But perhaps, I might figure, I could take this gift of stolen time and slip away down a cobblestone alley and into a little Italian restaurant I know has been there forever. If, for example, this early-ending meeting were in Boston, that restaurant might be called Marliaves, set on a hill on the edge of Downtown Crossing. I think it’s been there since they invented bricks. Perhaps I might coil tight in a black booth, my cell phone at my hip on the seat, untouched. The waitress would bring me a menu, but I wouldn’t need it, for who would need to scour such a pedestrian item in stolen time. I am free here, untethered, and my divinity in this moment gives me a clarity as to a simple desire.
