The first thought Wilson has is that he's dreaming -- he's passed this way hundreds, if not thousands of times, on his way from the hospital to the dry cleaners. Every time he's passed this same small restaurant, its interior is always gaily lit, the sound of light jazz and laughter drifting through the open doors.

It's just that he's never seen House here. Wilson pauses by the wide windows, squinting to make sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing -- House, seated at a booth with his fellows, swallowing down sips of what looks like a pint of Guinness, obviously telling stories of past exploits, past cases, past victories. Cameron is wearing a mildly skeptical look; Foreman, one of polite humor. Chase's look is entirely unreadable.

House glances up just then at the front window, and Wilson leans back, into the shadows.

Well, he thinks. Well, my clever diabolical plan to get House to connect is working. Next thing you know he'll be adopting a kitten with Cameron, going to the movies with Foreman, watching cricket matches with Chase. Cuddy ... more patients ... maybe this really is the first step.

Wilson's thoughts begin to trail away then, as he turns away from the window and strides on. He tries not to think about his invitation earlier that night, how he'd performed a mock bow as in a Shakespearean play, and how House had simply thrown his hotel life back in his face.

About how House's future plans, his attempt to reconnect, apparently don't include him.

fin