One year ago. They were pissed, to begin with. A little. Not nearly as much as Horatio is now. Only a shared Viognier bottle over fresh pasta, then a pair of whiskeys so they wouldn’t have to leave the restaurant, abandon the silk ribbons of wind. All the sharp corners sanded off their inhibitions. It was the sort of perfect-weather night that saddens New Yorkers because there are only ten or twelve per year. The city becomes an hourglass, precious grains lost every second. – […]