HAWMC: Ekphrasis post

For the month of April, I'm participating in the Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge from Wego Health. Each day I'll be writing a health-related post based on the HAWMC prompts, aiming to challenge myself as a writer and health activist. Thanks for following!  

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Happy Hour

It's Thursday, 6pm. The sun is making its way South and West and most people are making their way home for the day. Driving past that new bistro that opened last month where all the hippest in town seem to congregate, you wonder whether you should try it for yourself. Thursday is the new Friday, you hear. You find a parking space three blocks up and spend the walk back to the bistro calling your potential companion. You won't be dining - it's the end of a long work day, which can only mean one thing: Happy hour.

Your happy hour mate will be joining you soon. You're escorted to an outdoor table for two where the early evening sun glistens through the trees and the people watching is prime. Settling in, you reach for your bag to pull out your phone, then think better of it. The atmosphere out here is too enticing. Inside, you felt a bit like a black sheep. Out here, you and your sunglasses fit right in. What is it about sunglasses that make you both feel and look anonymous?

After a few minutes of eavesdropping and some surveying of the scene, you glance at the menu. Hip bistros like this have either the world's longest or world's shortest drinks menu. This one has gone for the latter. You decide you'll wait for your partner before you order, so you pick up where you left off, feeling nicely protected behind your shades. The waiter comes to take your order; you ask for a water and explain that you're waiting for a friend to arrive.

The table is a big thick slab of rustic uneven wood, lightly glazed to give it some finish. The chairs are classic French bistro style, the same shade of wood, no adornments. The tables are similar in their lack of flair, except for some gently folded white napkins. The tiled patio floor beneath you has a just-built glow about it - you'd like to come back in a few months' time when it has some character.

Your friend waves from the opposite side of the street and crosses to join you. While you sit and chat, happy hour comes and goes. Tables fill and empty and refill, but the two of you stay put, ignored by the waiter except for water top-ups, and that's uncommonly fine by you. You are deep in conversation - not necessarily about anything deep, but happy to chat for hours - one of those evenings where time seems to slip past and the world revolves without you. No 2 drink minimum. Which is, of course, the best kind of happy hour.