It should feel like dawn. I’ve gotten my second vaccine shot and am drifting through the two-week waiting period until I’m considered fully vaccinated. It should feel like that time of day when the edge of the sky starts to turn from black to the dustiest of dark blues. When the birds start chirping, softly at first, then louder. When the cat notices my change in breathing and creeps up along my side and then taps my face with a furry mitt. It should feel like the beginning of a new day, like the sun is gearing up to peek over the horizon.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like the opposite of that. It feels like twilight.

I make plans with a small group of vaccinated friends for when my two weeks are done. We’re going to meet at a spot we used to frequent pre-pandemic and have a drink. I’ve met up with people outdoors and taken walks or grabbed a quick bite, but I haven’t been inside a restaurant for a stiff drink in over a year. The thought of doing so is oddly strange and exotic.

How will it feel to be around other people? Strangers whom I don’t even know? Will there be a lot of other people? Will everything seem really loud? I’m not used to the chatter of multiple people in conversation. Do I even know how to have a conversation anymore?

Will I think about who just touched the doorknob, my chair, my glass, my plate, my silverware, my napkin, the saltshaker? Or will I get so caught up in being with my friends that I won’t think about anything like that at all? Will I dwell on how odd everything feels or will I be relaxed?

When my two-week-post-vaccination day comes, I get a haircut, the first in ages. It comes out just the way I want it because my hairdresser is so good. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to care about my appearance. I realize I’ve missed that. My friends and I decide to congregate early to make sure we get bar seats, always our preferred seating way back when. I walk up to the door of the restaurant and see that two friends are seated already. I look around the room as I cross the threshold. The place is as it always was, but I’m not the same. How many times did I walk through this door over the years? Yet now it doesn’t feel real. It feels like dreaming.

My friends are waiting. They’ve saved me a seat. I hug them.

“Are we hugging again?” I wonder out loud. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do anymore, but they don’t seem to mind. We sip our cocktails and order food. Two more friends arrive. Before I realize it, I’m settled in and relaxed. We’re laughing about silly things, cracking wise, and sharing stories.

There’s an oldies song called “Hello Stranger” that keeps playing in my head. Yes, it’s been such a mighty long time. Just like the song says.

The restaurant fills up. Well, as full as it can be at the moment. There’s still a restriction regarding social distancing, so tables are positioned far apart from each other. People wear masks on the way in and on the way out but seated we’re all bare faced. Staff is masked the entire time.

It all still feels not like the approach of dawn, but more like the approach of night. It’s calmer than dawn. It’s easy like an exhale. Like when the ocean recedes after a big wave. There’s the loud crash, then the water sizzles and retreats. It’s not a new beginning, it’s the end of a very, very long day.

As we exit the restaurant it’s real twilight. The sky stretches out dark gray above our heads and lights are glowing in trees.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.