The thing about photos — they spark memories. I see this evening scene, people moving quietly and comfortably through a wet, chilly evening in a pleasant Moscow neighborhood, and I’m transported to wet, chilly evenings in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, leisurely heading to a cozy pub where I’d find friends, a bowl of chowder, a pint of plain, some pleasant conversation, a game of darts.

Weeknights were the best. On weekends, the pub would be full of people desperate to enjoy themselves — too loud, too busy, too emotionally brittle, too intent on filling their leisure time to actually experience leisure. But weeknights were casual, subdued, congenial, intimate; the clink of pint glasses, the declarative thunk of darts, murmured conversations were background music.

I miss all that. But the memory is sweet. And photographs like this help preserve those memories.

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