PLANTED IN MIDAIR, BY D.V. BENNETTAway from the kitchen steam and the smell of stale Bolognese, I leaned against the back of the building, warming my hands on a mug of coffee. Through the alleyway, I could see the fancy new bistro on the cross street.
Early morning sunshine had raised a mist over the lush green banks of the harbor. I’d been washing dishes at The Curfew since two a.m. after catering a party thrown by real estate executives from Hartford. They had been looking to play deep and bury money.
The bistro’s owner was always there to open. I didn’t know his name yet, but with his slight beard and long hair, he looked a lot like the front man for Foo Fighters. Recently, we had taken to waving to one another each morning, and I was thinking I hadn’t seen him for a few days when Gar
