A Little Time
The story then follows as it always does. Andrew, surprised to see the bar still busy-as-ever—as if it wasn’t a normal Saturday night in New York City—decided he wanted to leave, but I made him stay. We sat at the bar, Andrew sulking, while I scouted out the scene. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think everyone in there was immortal; beautiful, young faces filled the floor; there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. But, talking to them, I quickly realized this bar was the tourist trap I feared it was—except instead of the endless lights and advertisements being the attraction, we were. It was like we were at the Bronx Zoo, waving at our fellow polar bears, while those on the other side watched in awe as we took a shit.