Charenton Macerations- Christopher Street
Last call was 4 am but you stayed longer. He winked at you while you both took your last sip of Beefeater muddled with lime. The air conditioner slowed to a faint hum, and the bartender glanced long at his watch, so you slid off the leather stool to exit the last stop of the night. The early morning air was wet and thick, laced with the smell of burnt coffee from the 24-hour coffee shop around the corner. Inside, pairs huddled over their steaming cups and refused to acknowledge the dawn. The last click-clacks and heel taps on walkups and stairwells, a percussive precursor to the slow shuffle of Saturday morning foot traffic. He grabbed his hand. As she did hers. It felt good and it was okay. It has always been okay on Christopher Street.