Sometimes, after a long day of paying attention to the demands of others and trying to focus through the beeping and whirring cacophony of the office, I like to meet a friend for a glass of wine. We speak of work, the world, politics and our lives. I am a little early, so I walk into the pub and take a chair. The over-stuffed leather and fabric wing chairs are arranged in twos and threes, around small round dark wooden tables. My friend is a little late, probably held back from the evening by the pull of the world of things that must be done, people who demand attention. It’s a chill, grey day so I order a hearty Bordeaux. I know the waitress, I have seen her many times, but this evening I notice her smile as our eyes meet – charming and a little ironic. She comes back and places the glass in front of me, asking me what I have been working on recently and I tell her. She listens, nodding seriously and in a thoughtful, distracted tone, gives me her approval. I am left with my thoughts, leather-bound notebook and glass of wine. I swirl its contents and put my nose in the glass, breathing in deeply. The complicated scent of alcohol and fruit transports me to a land of sunny days and happy memories. Not specific times, just hazy, golden, indistinct memories. I put the cool glass to my lips and feel the warm flood of tastes: grapes and chalks and tannins. I relax into the chair, cloistered by the dim, soft light and the scent of leather now warmed by my body. Happy and relaxed, I settle into The Atlantic magazine while I wait for my friend to join.