La Buvette on a snowy Omaha Friday afternoon: a bottle of wine. A plate of cheese. The last 50 pages of a book. People who did not come here together but know each other well enough to stop and chat on their way in or out. A waitress who understands exactly what I’m looking for, ignoring me almost entirely, stopping by my table only once, slowing down just enough to give me a thumbs up, her raised eyebrows serving as the punctuation to her wordless question. Yeah, I’m good.