The barista at the enormous coffee shop by my hotel keeps mentioning this bar, the Aviary. He says I just have to see it for myself, that I need to experience drinking a glass of wine while looking at the view.

The problem is that the Aviary’s at the top of a skyscraper, and it’s the most overcast day imaginable. And I don’t even want to think about wine right now.

The other problem is that I’m in New York and I’m spending all my time on my laptop, drinking the same coffee I can get anywhere else. At least at this coffee shop there’s always a ton of other people doing the exact same thing, and it’s open until midnight. It honestly beats the bar in the lobby of my hotel, which is like ninety percent tourists every night.

My newsletter is going out regularly over the free Wi-Fi. But after a couple days of this, I tell myself that I’ve had enough with being productive.

After finally emerging from my hotel after a super late breakfast, I traipse over to Seventh Avenue and grab a taxi going south. I end up at the Pegu Club, which is more of a bar, on Houston.

The place isn’t big, but there are quite a few hot, stylishly scruffy, and seemingly unemployed guys hanging around—most of them drinking coffee at this hour. It’s weird, but I have no interest in talking to any of them.

The notion of bringing my laptop down here to do my newsletter strikes me, but shit, I can’t keep going down that road, as much as talking to and hearing from my readers helps. It’s time to get outside into the daylight, back into the world.

I leave and start walking downtown, not really thinking about much and doing some half-conscious window shopping in Soho, checking my phone every few minutes for whatever reason.

Screw it, I need to stop...whatever this is.

I walk into some random bar on Broome Street. There is low lighting, leather upholstered furniture, a fake fireplace, shelves of books lining the walls...and one man sitting at the bar—one very good-looking man in a high-end tailored suit. I’m talking a Freeway-caliber suit at the very least.

I size him up as I approach the bar, slowly. He’s young, but much more put-together than those dudes up at Pegu Club. In case anyone’s getting nervous that I’m mentioning Freeway, I’m guessing that this guy’s underwear choices are agreeably conventional.

The guy turns around, and I stop walking. His face is strikingly handsome and just a bit rugged.

Then he smiles. Nothing overwhelming, just a warm, friendly smile that’s also hot as hell.

But I feel nothing. I smile back politely, turn around, and leave.

Luckily, there’s a taxi barreling down the street that I’m able to get so I can go back up to where I’m staying in Midtown and get back to doing the only thing I seem to enjoy these days.

As soon as I get back to my room, I set up my laptop and start spilling my guts to my readers. Yeah, I know I said I needed to get out in the world, but I can’t.

Forget going to the coffee shop and talking to the barista and dealing with all the other bullshit. Something about sitting at the little desk in my hotel room and typing is helping me understand what’s bothering me.

I can write in my newsletter what I can’t even admit to myself.

That this is all about WineBar.

Still.

The best part is not sending this stuff out into the void. The best part is hearing back from my readers, knowing that I’m reaching people, hearing their thoughts, and getting their advice.

I wind up spending much of the day in my room, through the late afternoon, getting down my thoughts for new newsletter updates, continuing the dialog of what I really want to talk about.

After getting some of that out, I feel better. It’s still not amazing, but it’s an improvement over my time in New York so far.

Now maybe I can get the hell out of my room for a while. I decide to start with an elevator ride down to the lobby—small steps—and maybe a quick trip to the bar. I’ll probably be ready to get back to the newsletter after that.

I’m thankful to find the bar nice and empty when I get there. It’s a comfortable spot, and there’s not too many people. There’s low-key lighting and super nice, upmarket living room furniture instead of the usual crap you find in bars.

I don’t see a bartender, or anybody. I pick up a cocktail menu from the bar on my way to a crazy comfortable-looking sofa.

While I’m walking, I check my phone semiconsciously again. But this time, it starts ringing in my hand. It’s Lana. I pick up.

“Hey, Lana.”

“Hey, um, so are you okay?”

The way Lana asks sounds so catastrophic it starts to scare me.

“Yeah. Why? What’s going on? I’ve been in my room most of the day.”

“About that...I’ve been getting your newsletter.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m doing these days. What’s the problem? I don’t get it.”

“Really, Emily? You know what it is. I’ve never seen you like this. I’m worried.”

I finish walking to the sofa. I sit and immediately begin melting into the cushions.

“Oh my god, Lana, you would not believe how nice this couch is. You have to come visit.”

“Em, are you even listening? You can’t wallow like this. It’s unhealthy. It’s obvious to me, and I’m on the other side of the country.”

I take in the decor and look up at the understated lighting fixtures. I hear somebody walk in, but I really don’t care.

“Lana, I know you’re sick of hearing about WineBar, but I can’t just repress everything. The newsletter is helping me.”

I notice two guys sit down on two off-white accent chairs, facing each other near the bar. I can see that they’re dressed in suits, probably on a business trip, but I don’t look at them for long.

“The only way you’re going to resolve this is to call Kirk and really talk to him.”

There are more people coming in now—office workers, a couple tourists, and finally the bartender shows up.

“That ship has long sailed. I’ve been through this, both over the phone and in person. I got the clear message that enough is enough. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

This feels liberating to state so plainly. But as I say it, I realize how badly I want to be wrong.

“I don’t know, Em. Just maybe try to do something else with your time, something enjoyable.”

“Sure thing.”

Just as I’m hanging up, I spot one of the business dudes approaching. He has icy-blue eyes, a beautifully molded jaw, and he’s wearing a pinstripe suit. Like the guy in Soho, he’s a very fine specimen.

A blonde woman in a gold dress is scoping him out shamelessly from behind.

The guy in the pinstripe suit starts talking to me, shouting almost, when he’s still ten feet away.

“Hey! You look like you’re from here. I need some directions. Do you know the subway?”

I don’t fucking feel like dealing with this. I just want to get and leave, so I do.

Pinstripe suit guy, SoHo suit guy, the barista...all of it just reminds me of how much I miss Kirk.

When I get back to my hotel room, I look at my laptop. Now I don’t even feel like typing, and my vision’s becoming hazy with tears.

I’ve tried and tried to repress this, to deny it. But I can’t.

I’m not getting over WineBar anytime soon. And I don’t know what to do. All I can do is stand there and cry.