Rain drops shattered against the ground like glass beads. The air was thick, enough so that inhaling felt like swallowing. It wasnt showing any sign of letting up, so I turned back to the bar and asked Joe for another glass of Côtes du Rhône.
Pastis, even more packed than usual with everyone trying to escape the rain outside, was dealing with its own storm inside. A cacophony of the voices of waiters, bartenders, customers, silverware clattering against plates and glasses clinking.
Occasionally a bellowing laugh would emit from one side of the dimly lit restaurant.
I felt like I was in a painting, whether or not that was because of the drinks Id had, or because this scene felt uncannily similar to a situation that Toulouse-Lautrec mightve been attracted to is debatable.
It was a bit much, though, so I emptied my glass and went outside. I was greeted with a blast of hot, wet air, and a foggy amalgam of smoke, mist, and the scent of the hot-dog stand over by Serafina.
I heard footsteps pounding through the small river that was now 9th Ave, and glanced up to see a young man running across the street. He was soaked, from head to toe, and if I had to guess hed only been trying to make it from the Gansevoort on the other side of the street.
I tripped the shutter, ran my hands through my hair, inhaling one last gulp of heavy air, and returned to my barstool inside.