They went to a swanky

bistro

where everything was high quality. The wood and velvet and leather that draped the well to do diners during their care free conversations. The

quality

of ingredients. The thick, textured paper of the menus. The wax of the burning candles.

The only thing missing amidst the quality was a thing Dempsey couldn’t point his finger to. This allusion bugged him, not because this thing was something he wished for in a restaurant, but because that thing was the next frontier of his work. How could he capture that inexplicable and deploy it in his craft? That thing which can not be measured by numbers and pointed to by somebody else as "quality"?

"Say, Max. What you thinking all deeply about there?"

Dempsey turned to Greg.

No matter how early in the day it was the bistro burnt candles for you. It was perpetually

dark

inside. You would think it's evening even when the sun was at its highest position outside.

"Nothing unusual. Work. What else do I think of, Greg?"

Greg was pleased at the answer and his glance returned down to the menu. It was neither obvious whether he believed or didn't believe Dempsey. But he still added anyways: "swore you might be thinking about your wife. Everything okay at home?"