The Blueprint For A Bad Decision

I watched from the corner, sitting near the juke box, sketching a mezzanine I'll never build.

I spend my days analyzing load-bearing walls. It's a habit. When you've seen enough blueprints, you realize that most things — buildings, bridges, marriages — are held together by little more than strategic bolts... and luck.

Take, for instance, the gray-haired man at the bar last night, seated by the stained glass mural.

He was pitching his soul to a woman — half his age — clearly looking for the exit. His "foundation" was built on three gin-and-tonics and a story about his start-up. No structural integrity. One stiff breeze and the whole thing collapses.

At one point during his monologue, he glanced at me as if I were part of the furniture.

Perhaps I've become a permanent fixture in the background of other people's dramas. You see the cracks in the masonry long before the tenants do.

Most people just keep adding floors until the ground gives way.

The plan for a graceful exit is simple. Look for the door before you start speaking. If she's checking her watch, the roof is already coming down. Leave the site without a flourish.

Architecture is the art of knowing when to stop building.

Me?

I'm just here for the Scotch... and the Zeppelin tunes.

• Have you ever met a stranger in a bar where things worked out?