Unfinished. Won’t Finish…

death & co

I was to meet them at 8 at Death & Co. in the Lower East Side. I blamed my thirty minute tardiness on a guiltless Brooklyn train and foot traffic from the Astor Place metro over to Avenue A. After a 15-minute wait outside, the bouncer escorted me between thick floor to ceiling drapes to a dimly lit speakeasy-esque den of first dates and single Manhattan women. Death was more forgiving than I’d imagined—candles, admissible waitresses, balmy cocktails. “Nice place,” I said as we sat. After a week of Sex & the City reruns and total hibernation in my Brooklyn apartment, K_ had finally coerced me to meet her and a friend, C_, for a night of drinks and dancing in Manhattan; remedy to her most recent OkayCupid fail and burgeoning cynicism toward late 20-something dating in New York City. “Are you feeling better?” K_ asked touching my shoulder. I nodded. I wanted to be the listener that night. Tonight, these two sophisticated, mysterious, intimidatingly beautiful women were about two drinks ahead of me, and eager to share the latest of their adventures of being wooed by city-dwelling millennial professionals. “Tell me everything,” I said. I expected a nickname for this one. We had many—The German, The Dentist, Lucifer, White Negro, JGL Lookalike. She called this one by his name, so I knew the
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