The clerk at the wine shop is friendly, but we're not exactly friends just yet. So when he talks about moving out of New York eventually, I begin to wax philosophical, saying, "Well, every devil makes a deal, and if you're not in New York to do something big, maybe it's not for you."
As soon as I say it, his uncomfortable shrug (midwestern diffidence aside) tells me I've overstepped, but when I apologize, he waves me off.
"I sometimes like talking about something other than wine," he says.
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