Pinky swear
A girl just asked me if I was drunk. She aplologized when I said “no.” I wasn’t; it’s the first time I’ve been rested in weeks. And it’s only 11pm — early for New York. I was proud of her group of friends, beautifully drunk as you should be on a summer Saturday night. They look awesome, ready to flirt with anything -s they flirt shamelessly at the 60 pound mutt as we exit the elevator. I don’t mean that as a descriptor, it was a dog. An adorable, dumb brown mutt, happy to be pet by anyone that knows that a steak bone goes well as a chaser for all the appropriate affection. Which we all knew, of course, hence the mutual love. Before the doors opened, the girl had asked me to pinkie swear to her that I would be drunk by the end of the night. Her friends interrupted a pinkie is the wrong vow to break and I agreed that promise was one I did not seek to have to keep. As we left the mutt and lobby and they stumbled sexily into the soon-to-be adulterated evening, I could see they were going to uphold their unspoken promises: to be wild, 25 and seductively coyly short of wreckless. I walked off to hail a cab to a non-hungover eve in Brooklyn, assured the city would have enough estrogen to cover for me for the night. Sober, I leave the Island and promise to return tomorrow.
