By Jacob Dimpsey
Last night, we broke the TV in our room in the Grand Hyatt. We also broke a bottle of Grey Goose over the nightstand. You touched yourself while I watched, and I drank until I threw up and passed out in the bathroom. I woke up with glass in my leg like shrapnel and you woke half-naked on the window bench, curtains wide open. We wonder how much the city saw of us.
The hotel lounge offers coffee with Kahlua after breakfast and we enjoy the expected day-drunkenness of Midtown that makes middle-aged women at brunch laugh at nothing and young people like us pose so beautifully for Instagram. Our eyes droop heavily as if to say, “Look at us! Oh, to be young and drunk in the city!”
Old retired bankers and brokers fall asleep in cafes with cigarettes still burning between their fingers and we smoke weed in Central Park, watching joggers and bikers kick up the autumn leaves that have fallen along the pavement.
You say, “What if we just stay here?”
I say, “We already told all our followers that we’ll be in Tribeca tonight.”
We leave when the sun sets behind the San Remo. We find a luxurious loft party where a celebrity was spotted, and we drink and dance where everyone can see us. When they cheer, they are cheering for us. When they raise their glasses, they are toasting us. People swell around you, and I get pushed back into the wall. You flicker in and out of view through the crush of bodies. Your eyes are closed. Your arms drift into the air above your head and sway like river reeds in an aquarium. I go to the bar and wait for you to find me.
When we return to the Hyatt, I tell the concierge to send up a bottle of their best. The staff replaced our TV for a fee. They swept up the glass like it was never there.
