You were the woman in the gold eyeshadow (which you wore for no good reason), sitting alone at The Waterfront Hotel, reading Bon Appetit. You peered sadly into your Dewars and soda (you wanted it to be Makers and soda, but The Waterfront is going out of business, and you know this, and you don't want to be a bother), and you reminded yourself to breathe every few minutes.
I was the man in the trenchcoat and hat, who sat down beside you and asked if you were a chef.
You replied, "No."
You bitch.
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