Beef Wellington and a Bottle of Merlot
The sidewalk of Bright Street had become a sea of colourful umbrellas as it endured its Friday afternoon peak hour. It was just before five-thirty, but the sun’s final glow had been obscured by a dark grey cloud which had settled just before noon and hadn’t budged since. It was, thus, up to the streetlights to illuminate the comings and goings, and they did so, if only bleakly. Beneath their light, shoes of various styles and sizes bustled in every direction. A pair of quite high and quite bedazzled heels, seemingly undisturbed by the rain-drenched pavement, marched along with a muffled click-clack. They were passed by a pair of sleek black business shoes whose morning shine had since fogged, and whose stride was twice as long. In the opposite direction, a pair of fluro yellow sneakers jogged rhythmically, although not hurriedly accounting for the crowd about them. Nevertheless, they slowed as they approached two pairs of boot-clad feet.