On drinking a glass of water with lemon in Reston Town Center

I am at dinner, alone.
I don't really need to eat. I had a large lunch and I broke one of my Lenten fasts by trying a samosa that I helped my sister-in-law make... But I needed to be out, on my own. I needed to see the town and be seen in it. In still not sure if Leesburg's historic district would have been a better choice- colonial homes converted into small town Asian restaurants and obscure shoppes pedaling antiquities and old, new wisdom.
It doesn't matter. I'm here now. The bitter wind reminded me that I did not opt to change the stockings for leggings this afternoon and that my gloves were in fact in the purple winter coat in my brother's coat closet.
I'm proud of myself for this. I didn't beg anyone to come with me. I was only clear about where-ish I was going. I even refused a table near the bathroom for one by a street window with full view of the door, the bar and the passers-by.

There are a couple of men talking...loudly. So loudly that I assumed they must be their own party and seated in my earlobe, but they're a dining room away from me and they're with lovers or partners who are focusing on their own plates only glancing at each other in companionable commiseration.
There are kids out past bedtime and the volume of their shouts reflects the 'so tired I feel drunk' jubilant belligerence of a little kid who is having far too much fun to even consider how tired she/he is. I love it. The giggles, the teasing siblings, the nestling and wrestling in familial arms. It speaks of comfort, love and great memories.

My water glass is not the beveled norm of the bar. It has a thick base with half circles keeping it on it's toes, denying it from sitting flush on the table. The ice with it's flat bottom and buttressed top is the perfect consistency for crunching and after a few sips, that's exactly what I do. Condensation marks the latitude, 15 degrees south of the mouth of the glass. The lemon is in an in-between state- ripened enough to soften the bite, but not fragrant mush yet and it bumps into the ice collegially.
The Guy at bar talking to himself reminds me of the cook from the restaurant I worked at in my waitress days. He'd sit at the bar at the end of his shift- three or four beers in (the owner would send them down the dumb waiter or ask one of us to bring them to him) and just like that cook, he vanished. Without ceremony. Without notice.

The water seems to have expanded, but there's no more condensation. The hostess has been in and out in a puffy coat that doesn't seem to suit her slight frame or flowy teal silk shirt with cut out sleeves. So many things in this world are paradoxical, but I digress. My first course has arrived and it's time to have a taste.