Dancing flames from the firepit glint across the thick windows of the bar, casting flickering shadows against the moonlit deck outside. Distracted from both your drink, a smooth Vesper martini, and your partner-in-crime, who enjoyed their “usual”, you take a moment to take in your surroundings. Turning your attention back to your date, the warm sense of comfort envelopes you. All at once, you notice their smile, the smooth leather of the cushy sofa, a low din from the dining room juxtaposed with the quiet tinkling of glassware interrupted by the staccato clacking of dominoes, and then, the stem of your lightly dewy martini glass; its contents far tastier than anything you could make. You take a sip.

Your thoughts are politely interrupted.

“May I get you anything to eat?”

You hadn’t considered food yet, but with a few ounces of your favorite vodka and gin, it might be a good idea.

Your date places their order, and you yours, and the server subtly reminds himself of your food allergy under his breath, and jots it onto the chit. You’re glad someone remembered. As you converse in this peaceful, wood-paneled temple, you feel the blissful comfort of knowing you are at home.

There is no rush. Here, time is meaningless. You could be running off to a concert at the Disney concert hall, a drive to a game at Staples (or whatever its name is now), or stay in for a long dinner, capped by a game of bocce or a nightcap with your fellow members, whose faces all reflect the glow of relaxation.

Your meal finished, the server informs you that there is tiramisu on the menu. He knows it is your sitter’s favorite, and he has it boxed and ready to take…home…the other one. The home that isn’t the California Club.