Bar St. Angele

 I was on a case.

I needed to ignore the Metaversity, occasionally, in order to focus on time more presently.

It was a writer's bar.

Two types of tables. Singular booths, for writers to work. They'd drink, or smoke, or eat, and there was no empty seat, only a board facing them. The boards don't need explaining right now. They are a tradition, and like all traditions, charming.

I was on a case.

What interested me most about Bar St. Angele? No technology was allowed, and no written word was allowed to leave the premises. It all went into the genizah.

The other type of table was a table for three. These could be drawn together, but never with a third.

The strict rules were meant for writers, who loved them. They liked knowing mostly writers would be there. Every member earned one chip per month. Each chip entitled a writer to a reading, at any time. The chip had to be placed into the chest of Triaxtra, the owner of the place, and the whole bar would quiet itself so the writer could read something aloud.

Tonight, I was there with Akbar, who always tired of my distraction.

"I hate this place, Shylock. All the observation. It's a genre bar."

"Goddamnit, Akbar. Look at those hips. It's not a genre bar."

"Get to the point. We will not live forever."

"I think the Earth is flat, Akbar. I really do. In fact, I think the whole universe is flat."

Just as I said this, a man began playing the flute. A reading was going to be had.