If this were Buenos Aires, if I were Borges, it would all make a great deal of sense. A man, older, and older still if you look closely, walks into an elegant hotel bar. A jazz quintet is playing, straight up, trumpet, piano, guitar, stand up bass, drum kit. The older man is wearing white tennis shorts from a prior century. They are baggy legged and would be too short for a much younger man. He wears a dark afro wig. He makes no pretense that it is his hair, or that it is even real hair. He stands in a corner with his wife, intently watching the musicians. Others in the lounge and bar steal sidelong glances at him. He wears white athletic socks, white tennis shoes. He has on an oversized light blue sweatshirt. It is all quite logical. I am not Borges, this is not Buenos Aires. It is October, autumn has announced itself and taken hold. It is Rochester and winter lies in waiting. You can occasionally feel its bated icy breath. The older man does not drink. The band’s set ends. The older man and his wife walk out of the hotel into a lake chilled night.