the Ocean Blue

We went down to SOHO last night. We found some chic little restaurant/bar and decided to go in, and seek refuge from the icy winds.

The place was nice; there were many young people sitting in couches and benches, stooped over tables eating "chips" and drinking from colorful glasses. A sign at the stairs piqued my interest. "PRIVATE PARTY DOWNSTAIRS. Mechelle A..." I turned to my friend. "Let's go."

So we decided to tell people we were friends with an Anna, who we decided was Mechelle's colleague.

We found two blokes standing near the DJ and went to talk to them. Somehow they managed to figure out, almost immediately, that we were not from London. The shorter one, from Brixton, said, "This is a private party. But you guys had the balls to come down here. And for that you are officially invited." And the other one, the blonde, added, "Yea. The minute you two came over to talk to us, we knew you had to be American. The English just aren't brazen enough."

They continued to give us tips on cheap eats and trendy, young areas in the city. The reason they were all there was because two of the company's bosses were retiring. The shorter one from Brixton told us to go and say good bye to the boss by the couch, the one flirting with the young blond.

My friend and I walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," we said, in our most brazen, balls-y accents, "I am really sorry to see you go. It was truly a pleasure working with you." He look flustered. "Um, right. Well, I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you." And then he abandoned his girlfriend to sit on the couch, wondering when his architectural empire had reached the shores of the New World.