Dania had waited months
for La Galerie Bleu to re-open its
doors. Months, while the elegant old maison underwent a long-awaited
renovation. Yes, at the time, Dania had supported the closure, agreeing with the
other patrons that the place could use a fresh coat of paint, a new polish. The
building was a little old and sometimes even a bit drafty; the remnant of a
grander, more decadent time. What she couldn't have known was how much she'd
crave to go back once those doors were closed, how much she'd think about the
familiar comfort and escape into its roomy shows. Her Friday nights turned
empty and slow, and when she had a date she had to take them elsewhere, and it
was always disappointing.
La
Galerie's renovation ought to have been completed in
fourteen weeks. Then there were complications. Then there were delays, and a
smattering of protests by neighboring businesses over "appropriate
use" of the property. Fourteen weeks eventually became six months, and
Dania didn't realize she could start to crave the place like an addict craves a
fix.
