Before reaching a destination, clothing must be changed. I finally make it home before my capri's are sticking to my skin. You know it's hot when you have to peel off jeans. Gross.
After donning my favorite black shorts and a loose yellow tank, I find a bar not too far from my apartment.
Ironically, there aren't too many bars in the Financial District. You'd think all good bankers would want a cold beer before dealing with the Mrs...or Mister, I don't know.
A few sticky blocks brings me to the Black Bull on Queen West and Peter. Jacob and I passed it a few nights ago as we wandered back from El Trompo on Augusta. It appeals to me because of it's huge patio. I'm the summer gal who hates movement in heat but enjoys a nice cold beer while occupying a patio table, preferably with some pals but as of late, they are hard to come by.
The place has potential to be a good neighborhood pub, but all that depends on the nightly crowd. It's like someone took a small pub and ballooned it. Yellow walls surround the rom, halved by black molding. Brass and wood adorn each table while old beer signs and neon lights line the open, yellow spaces.
The floor looks beaten down, light brown in places and dark in others. I'll assume it's popularity at the abundance of tables both inside and out at 4:24 P.M on a Monday. It's not even Happy Hour yet.
As usual, I'm hesitant to walk in. I have this ridiculous fear of looking stupid. It's ridiculous because nobody knows I look stupid unless I allow them to know. Life is acting, isn't it? Basically pretend you know what the hell you're doing and everyone will assume likewise.
I follow closely to a group of young people, about my age. I wish I were joining their group. Soon I may develop a group of my very own.
I spot the bar at the back and head that direction. My faux leather purse is sticking to my arm and if I don't cool down son, I may die. I order a Coors Light (an import that makes me laugh) and settle in for an afternoon of doodling and observing.
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