Pippin

Something of interest would inevitably blow in behind Anne and Summer before midnight. When the tightly private conversation of an earlier evening was extended to the length of the bar and their rolling eyes had been checked. Then would something good appear.

"Here they go," muttered the bartender.

"What's your name?" Summer extended a hand in the direction of a James Mcavoy face while Anne buried her nose in a Stella glass.

Pippin. His name was Pippin.

Anne flushed crimson and rearranged her knees on the stool. She narrowed her eyes at the Scotchman and began to diatribe Great Expectations.

Observing that her work was done, Summer clutched her vodka, soda, and orange and angled for the jukebox. She was quite beautiful. Though small, she squared her shoulders and walked with confidence. Her mile long divine wine and black hair was pulled up in a knot at the top of her head, and she looked like she could be a dancer.

Summer's face was delightfully complicated. But her eyes defined her beauty. Inconceivably large and thick-lashed, they flashed and commanded and sympathized.

"The Drifters... The Drifters..." She flicked through the album pages and punched in "Saturday Night at the Movies."

Turning on her sequined heel, she saw Anne off her stool and backed up to the bar in a questionable embrace. A lusty Pippin had silenced Estella's Dickensian mouth with surprising dexterity.

"It looks like our friends are getting along quite well."

An entirely bald, Irish Mr. Clean placed a large hand on Summer's olivey bare neck, and she accepted her wingman duties with grace.

Mr. Clean owned a pub on 52nd street, and he promised Anne a real live full pint.

"Come on!" Anne grabbed Summer by the hand and dragged her outside. In the exit lights of the bar, she saw Mr. Clean's face smeared with red lipstick and she doubled over with laughter. Summer tried to light a cigarette, but Anne required both hands to dance her down the sidewalk. "Look what you did to Mr. Clean! Pippin, that's his name right? Yes, great expectations Pippy Pip won't tell me what he does! Don't you think he's James Mcavoy's brother?"

It was only too delicious to hide from the snow behind stained glass windows and a beer. Or ten. Their bar was transporting and touched upon an insatiable nostalgia for any time but the present. A euphoric vision of New York City.