"Let's go for one more," said Steve.
It was 1 am. It was SoHo. Steve is an ex. Quite a charming one.
"I know this little place..."
Steve always knows places. Evenings with him have involved pub quizzes in pubs with horse brasses, serving alcopops in a twink bar, and crying quietly on an art installation while breaking up again.
We were walking down one of those SoHo streets. Steve knocked on a door. This wasn't like a normal door leading to a swish club. It was a battered door next to another door which said "Model".
The door opened barely, like you see in speakeasy movies. A tiny bouncer dragged Steve inside and shut the door. There was a pause. Then the door opened again and Steve grabbed me.
We went down some filthy stairs, down some more filthy stairs, and into a tiny, tiny room. It was full. Full of impossible people, a tiny bar, three musicians and a ceiling tiled with "Learn Italian" LP covers.
A petite women, looking like Twiggy wandered behind the bar briefly and fixed herself a drink. Then she came over and squeezed Steve.
"This is Meg. This is her bar," explained Steve.
We got drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that we stopped standing and just sat on stools. Blinking. Contentedly.
I can always remember how I got home. Even on those vile nights where you're counting your steps on the way. But that night, I suddenly woke up on a night bus, watching Yes Minister on my iPod.
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