Photo Source: Unsplash Dinner on Broadway November’s sharp light, pinched cheeks. Air relieved of warmth, a cold that clings. Manitoba maple helicopters seeds, I want more space for the sky. A day after my break up, the waitress lights a candle for a friend and I. For ambiance, she says. My friend describes her third date, and before our drinks arrive I tell her she deserves more. What I mean to say is we need to stay tender: as the orange in the bourbon cider, the soft flesh beneath hard...