On Saturday nights, when the day’s sunshine is giving way to darkening skies, and the not so distant foghorns scout the incoming marine layer before it reaches us inland, the streets feel like a hushed race.

All along the row of bars and restaurants early families and pre-date friends are huddled over drinks and conversation; heat lamps warm the few sidewalk diners, and cabs roll through stop signs and into intersections to collect as many fares as possible.

For some, it’s beginning. But for us, it’s ending. And before the front door is locked from behind and the kitchen stove sparks to life, we run to the neighborhood market, there too a rush of activity in preparation and last minute ideas.

We walk past the check-out lines, past the cool shelves of eggs and butter, by the misting stacks of vegetables, and instead burrow into the back, where the linoleum slants and the tall shelves of boxed and canned goods mute the activity of the street.

There the tiny speakers find their voices—always a cool jazz, a Stan Getz-infused easy rhythm that seductively invites us inward—and we wait until we’re the only ones. Near the dairy case, near the aromatic coffees and teas. There, we’re alone, groceries in hand.

And we breathe. Alone, deep in the immediate back corner, but pulling out at the very center of the evening. No one can find us. The eye of the weekend. And in its swirling, sweeping activity, we’ve found the one quiet, secret space.