The inside of Fresnel, located in the theater district, looked like a stage set. From the tables to the costumed servers, the place shouted “there’s no business like show business.” An edge of fake and flimsy surrounded everything, which made me feel a little like a bull in a china shop.
My inner construction worker wanted to stalk around the room and add substance to the scene in front of me. I was afraid to sit on a chair or put my hands on a table because all of them looked like they’d break under my weight.
A piano player rolled through catchy but unfamiliar songs, the waiters and patrons sang along, and klieg lights pulsed in time with the music. Since I’m not a theater person, I didn’t know the lyrics, though everyone else seemed to. As Mitch nudged me to sing, I ended up shrugging
