Naturally, I take note of the bottles of wine left unfinished at the end of the restaurant's night.   There's a glass or two left in some, maybe three, and depending, I will put some of them in the cooler to sleep in the cold darkness, the delicate reds, the Pinot Noir, the Brouilly, the Cotes du Ventoux.  Someone, table 50, a nice couple, has left a half a glass of 2009 Cahors for me to pour in a glass and finish, the first taste a getting used to, and then getting over its awkward roughness, its queer overripe fruit taste inherent in Malbec wines, to find the smoothness within, the blending in of Tannat and Merlot doing exactly the trick in this inky dark wine.  I taste two bottles of the same Lascaux from Pic St. Loup, one comment from the night being 'left open just slightly too long.'  (They taste the same.)  There's a Carignan from Chile, a Miguel Torres, imported by Elite Wines, and an odd but tasty on its own terms red from La Clape down below Perpignan.  There's always the Bordeaux, a 2009 Haut Medoc.  Three ladies have come and sat since the high busy of 7:45, along with a white Costieres de Nimes, two bottles plus of that, shots, not often done, not a typical feature of a night here, shots, of Martinique white rum as a kind of a petit punch, and at the last moments, before leaving, the tall Danish lady puts one of the opened Bordeaux off the bar and into her armpit, or some other place.  She is indignant when I mildly frisk her.  If she'd have asked, I'd have happily contributed in good faith;  why spoil the fun, her friends have tipped well, and we're not after making enemies.  But instead she won't admit her thievery.  Fine.  Come back next time sister and we'll just see how you get treated.  (a Gemini, she is, multiple personalities of an opposing nature.)

What makes some wines left behind, for me to care for, as I eat my grilled piece of salmon, ordered rare, so I can bring it back up to some warmth in the over up at the wine bar without killing it, in complete loneliness, everyone in the restaurant down to the dishwashers gone on a Saturday night.  What makes some forsaken lovers, unsure of what to do, what to say, where to fit in, there body of flesh and juice left for the lonely saint to finish as he sits and listens to David Brubeck, before doing the checkout math counting money and checking credit card tickets.  One says, 'delicious food as I remember, mediocre service,' and this is a guy who sat down, wanting a glass of water no ice, ordered veal cheeks without hardly looking the menu, proceeded to sit with headphones of his iPhone or blackberry on, conducting business, just as the bartender got frantically busy, very obviously busy, early in the evening.  What do you want, buddy?  He got his food on time.  Sat down just as a couple got up off the slate counter--did my best to ask the bus boy to clear the spot for him.  I am busy helping out the waiter in the dining area right there opening a bottle of wine.  Aamir, here's to you, buddy.  Sorry about your mediocre service, but you expressed absolutely no interest in anything but your water without ice, which was refilled when the barman had a chance, did not need to be prompted, your $4.50 tip on $31.85 so much appreciated, along with your silent comment written on a credit card dupe.

I put everything away, wipe down surfaces, do the checkout, sip from the wines leftover, here and there, and then I too will go out into the night, go home on a bicycle, have a sip of wine at home, cook some black beans with red pepper and onion, watch Kid Rock and then bluegrass on PBS and then call it a night, this night I was called in to work.

I've never had a harder job in my life, I've never had any other job in my life--I'm sure we all say that.  There are the imposed difficulties of feeling strange about it all, as if one had psychological issues such that one was compelled to sit in rooms with crazy people, uninhibited people, people in need of something even as they feel insistent on passing on, perhaps going over to Virginia, Arlington, with some other women who show up to meet the first group of two or three.

And talents that once were, opportunities to find a path toward being a congressman or a professor or some form of intellectual are wasted in the duties, another shift piled on to you via a phone call, and the kind of simple suffering that life is, calling one to need company, settles in.  It is a small happiness to find out that Cancellara overcame a rough week to win the great race over the cobblestones, Paris Roubaix, a sign that heroic types may hold on.

Oh, one of the three women was kind enough to bring back the bottle of Bordeaux, embarrassed, the server who worked brunch the next day told me.  Well, that was nice, I said to myself, and went about my business.