It was a dark and stormy night. A Saturday night, to be exact, and it was snowing. My date and I were freezing. The wind howled up the streets of the West Village. The lights blinked wildly.
We jammed out hands into our pockets and surged ahead. “I know,” he whispered. “I know where to go.”
We arrived at a pub holding our shoulders, our cheeks pink from the winter. I considered something warm, like a hot toddy, but soon remembered I was in an ale house.
I felt warm all over, and smiled at my date.
Wait, it wasn’t him, it was the fireplace. It set my heart on fire.
Wait, it wasn’t the fire, it was the beer. The beer was delicious.
My date’s eyes danced around the room as we settled in a corner table and swilled away the chill of the evening. The bitter night pressed up against the window, leaving a frosty fog on Bleeker Street.
The city just blinked on.