He definitely liked this place better than some of the others. It was nice because it was very dark, and he could sit at a table near the window and feel sheltered while he took the magazines out of his briefcase to look at his handiwork. Phase 1 was complete and he was biding his time for the rest of the inspiration to come to him. He flipped through the first copy of Vogue, with its dog-eared pages and notes scribbled in the margins. Yes, things were certainly going his way, but he didn't need to think about that tonight. He had a look around the restaurant. There was a lot of talking going on and not very much eating, which annoyed him slightly. At the table to his left a young woman was listening to her friend tell a boring story. He could tell it was a boring story because of the way the woman's smile was fixed rigidly on her face, as if she were having a seizure of politeness. He thought that maybe someone should just tell the friend that the story was boring and have it over with, but no one seemed comfortable doing that. For a full two seconds he wrestled with the idea that it was his job to inform the friend, but eventually inertia overcame him, and soon he was thinking about birds again, and wondering when the woman who had responded to his personal ad was going to arrive.