“Gonna git me some strange!” Matt yells as he crushes a beer can on his forehead. The can crumples more then flattens and leaves behind a cut that spills blood down his nose.

“Yeah!” Or some other affirmative notion is interjected by Todd, encouraging the mayhem.

They stand in a mediocre Irish pub on the Upper East Side, oblivious to much of anything. The female bartender, covering just a enough to convey that she is indeed not a prostitute, serves Jager Bomb after Jager Bomb because after all, she needs the tips.

On the other side of the bar, just as Bon Jovi’s guitar riff comes out of the overhead speakers, Sarah and Jen sip bottom shelf Cosmos discussing bridesmaids dresses, mani-pedis or the fact that they hate their respective bosses.

“Broheim, I have to take a wizz,” Matt blurts out as if he just made a brilliant discovery.

“I really have to go. Watch my bag?” Sarah gets up from the barstool, a little drunker than expected. “Restrooms” with an arrow, points downstairs and the smell of bleach, vomit and stale beer fill the air like the scent of freshly mowed grass. The two, heading for the same unisex bathroom give awkward smiles as they both reach for the door.

So when the cosmos collide and the stars line up and the alcohol is reacting in the body just so, a moment is created between two people. A moment, where each of their lives have led up to this very moment when they share the same physical space.

“Broheim,” Matt says to Todd as he reaches into his pocket, back at the bar, “Look what I got in the bathroom.”

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