The bar was moderately crowded when he arrived, the after-work crowd beginning to settle in for the evening. Curtis had claimed the table near the window, positioning himself where he could watch the street traffic while they talked. He had already ordered his first beer and was scrolling through his phone when Elias approached.
"Good timing," Curtis said, looking up from his device. "I just finished dealing with a supplier who thinks 'two weeks' means 'whenever I feel like it.' Sometimes I wonder why anyone goes into construction when every project depends on unreliable people."
Elias ordered his drink—a single malt whiskey that cost more than he usually spent but felt appropriate for the occasion—and settled into the chair across from his friend. "What's the current project looking like?"
"Brownstone renovation in Park Slope. The owners want to modernize everything while maintaining the historical character, which sounds simple until you try to run fiber optic cables through walls that were built before electricity existed. Every day brings a new structural surprise."
Curtis launched into a detailed description of the challenges involved in retrofitting nineteenth-century architecture with twenty-first-century systems. The conversation was familiar and comfortable, the kind of technical discussion that allowed both men to demonstrate their expertise while learning from each other's experiences.
"The real issue," Curtis continued, "is that the owners saw something on a home renovation show and assume it's automatically possible in their specific situation. They don't understand that every building is different, every project has unique constraints. You can't just copy someone else's solution and expect it to work."
"That's true in any craft," Elias agreed. "People see finished work and don't appreciate the problem-solving that went into creating it. They assume the process is straightforward because the result looks effortless."
When Curtis finished describing the complexities of his current project, he leaned back in his chair and studied Elias with the kind of attention that suggested he was trying to read between the lines. "So what did you finish today that was worth celebrating?"
"Wedding rings," Elias said, taking a sip of his whiskey and feeling its warmth spread through his chest. "For a couple getting married next month. The bride wanted custom inscriptions in flowing script—'Always together' on both bands."
The words hung in the air between them, and he could see Curtis processing the implications. Wedding rings weren't just another commission for a divorced craftsman.
"That's got to be..." Curtis began, then stopped himself, clearly unsure how to navigate the emotional territory they were approaching.
"Complicated?" Elias suggested. "Yeah, it is. But not in the way you might expect."
He described the morning's work, the careful attention to detail, the satisfaction of creating something beautiful and meaningful. He explained his decision to include the silver earrings as a gesture of goodwill, the importance of building client relationships through exceeded expectations.
But then he found himself describing the moment when he had retrieved his own wedding rings from the drawer, the strange emotional distance he had experienced while examining his finest work transformed into mere objects. Curtis listened without interruption, occasionally nodding or making small sounds of understanding.
"The weird thing," Elias said eventually, "is that I don't feel angry or bitter about it. I spent weeks on those rings, invested more money than I could really afford, put everything I had into making them perfect. And now they're just... there. Beautiful, expensive, and completely meaningless."
Curtis was quiet for a moment, working his way through what appeared to be his second beer while considering his response. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a careful sincerity that suggested he understood the conversation had moved beyond casual social interaction.
"I broke up with Lisa last week," he said. "Two months together, which I know isn't the same scale as a marriage, but it got me thinking about how we invest ourselves in relationships. You put time and energy and hope into something, and then it ends, and you're left wondering what any of it meant."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "Two months?"
"I know, I know. But that doesn't make it feel less real when it's happening. We had plans, you know? Weekend trips we were going to take, restaurants we wanted to try. Little things that suddenly don't matter anymore."
"What happened?"
Curtis shrugged, the gesture carrying more weight than its casualness suggested. "Nothing dramatic. We just... stopped clicking the way we had in the beginning. Conversations became more difficult, silences became awkward instead of comfortable. You know that feeling when you realize you're both working too hard to make something feel natural?"
Elias nodded, recognizing the description from his own experience. "Yeah, I know that feeling."
They drank in contemplative silence for several minutes, each processing their respective situations while the bar's ambient noise provided a comfortable backdrop. The evening crowd was beginning to thicken, conversations growing louder and more animated as alcohol loosened social inhibitions.
"Can I ask you something?" Curtis said eventually. "When did you know your marriage was really over? Was there a specific moment, or was it more gradual?"
The question caught Elias off guard, forcing him to examine memories he had been avoiding for months. "It wasn't one moment," he said slowly. "It was more like... you know how erosion works? Water flowing over rock, wearing it away so gradually that you don't notice the change until suddenly there's a canyon where there used to be solid ground."
He paused, searching for the right words to describe something that had resisted clear definition even as he lived through it. "We started as companions, you know? Real partners who enjoyed each other's company and shared the same basic vision for what we wanted our life to look like. But somewhere along the way, we became roommates who happened to be married. The companionship just... leaked away."
"Was it anyone's fault?"
"That's the thing—I don't think it was. We both tried, both made efforts to reconnect and rebuild what we'd had. But trying to force companionship is like trying to force laughter. The harder you work at it, the more artificial it becomes."
Curtis nodded thoughtfully. "So what do you do now? How do you move forward from something like that?"
"Honestly? I don't know yet. I'm still figuring it out." Elias finished his whiskey and signaled for another, feeling the alcohol beginning to relax the emotional barriers he usually maintained. "But I do know that making those rings today felt good. Not because I'm over everything, but because I was creating something meaningful for people who still have hope. Maybe that's enough for now."
The conversation continued as the evening progressed, meandering through topics both serious and trivial. They discussed work, relationships, the general uncertainties of middle-aged life in Brooklyn, and the strange ways that time changed perspective on events that had once seemed overwhelmingly important. Curtis proved to be a thoughtful listener, asking questions that helped Elias articulate feelings he hadn't fully understood himself.
By the time the bar announced last call, both men had consumed considerably more alcohol than either typically managed during an evening out. The walk back to Elias's workshop involved more careful navigation than usual, and Curtis's commentary on the architecture they passed grew increasingly philosophical and less coherent.
"You know what I love about old buildings?" Curtis said, stopping to examine a brownstone that looked virtually identical to the dozens they had already passed. "They were built by people who expected them to last forever. Every detail was crafted with the assumption that future generations would live in these spaces, use these stairs, look through these windows."
"And now we renovate them to install modern conveniences," Elias replied, steadying himself against a streetlight. "Change them to meet contemporary needs while trying to preserve their original character."
"Exactly! It's like... like marriage, maybe? You start with something beautiful and traditional, and then life forces you to adapt and modify, and sometimes the changes work and sometimes they don't, but either way you end up with something different from what you started with."
The analogy was imperfect and slightly incoherent, but Elias appreciated the attempt at connection. They continued walking, their conversation growing more fragmentary as fatigue and alcohol took their toll. By the time they reached the workshop, Curtis was ready to collapse onto the small couch that served as emergency seating for the rare occasions when Elias entertained visitors.
"Thanks for tonight," Curtis mumbled as he settled into the cushions, still wearing his jacket and shoes. "I needed to talk about this stuff with someone who understands."
"Yeah," Elias replied, already anticipating the headache that would greet him in the morning. "Me too."
Consciousness returned slowly and painfully, accompanied by the kind of headache that served as an effective reminder of why moderate alcohol consumption was generally the wiser choice. Sunlight streaming through the workshop windows felt like a personal assault, and the sound of his own movements seemed amplified to uncomfortable levels.
Curtis was sprawled across the couch in a position that looked profoundly uncomfortable but had apparently been sufficient for several hours of deep sleep. One arm dangled toward the floor while the other was twisted beneath his torso, his jacket twisted around his shoulders and his hair sticking up at improbable angles.
"Curtis," Elias called, his voice rough with dehydration and regret. "Time to return to the land of the living."
His friend stirred slightly but didn't open his eyes, instead making a sound that might have been acknowledgment or might have been protest. Elias tried again, louder this time, and was rewarded with a groan that suggested Curtis was experiencing his own version of morning-after consequences.
"What time is it?" Curtis mumbled, finally opening one eye to squint at the workshop windows. "And why does everything hurt?"
"Late enough that we both should have learned better by now," Elias replied, already moving toward the small refrigerator where he kept bottled water and the aspirin that would be essential for both of them. "And everything hurts because we're not twenty-five anymore."
As Curtis gradually returned to full consciousness, Elias reflected on the previous evening's conversation. The discussion had been more honest and revealing than their usual interactions, touching on subjects they both typically avoided. The alcohol had certainly loosened their tongues, but the understanding had been genuine.
The wedding rings sat on his workbench where he had left them, ready for delivery to Webb that afternoon. They looked exactly as they had the day before.
Whatever the future held for Webb's daughter and her fiancé, they would begin with beautiful rings and the best intentions. Sometimes, Elias thought as he handed Curtis a bottle of water and two aspirin tablets, that was all anyone could ask for.