Old friends and old fashions. A story of drunken disappointment.
Chris and I had nothing in common last spring. Only our aspirations were aligned, and somewhat odd given the time of day when we first met: it was not yet noon and we both stood outside Greenwich Treehouse, a neighborly West Village dive, staring into the darkness beyond a sign that read ‘Closed.’
This was my third trip to the Treehouse in 24 hours. The night before, some college friends had decided to meet for dinner at The Meatball Shop, a block away. Jordan would be among them. She and I had a few classes together when we attended college in Georgia years ago, passing each other in the halls, stopping to chat and discuss what books we were reading, recent projects we were working on, the once-in-a-while coffee date.
One night, after a fight with her then-boyfriend, Jordan invited me over to her apartment. I half-listened, hoping that once she stopped crying we’d crawl into bed, snuggle close and fall asleep to the hum of cicadas outside.
That never happened…
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