Roach

It's an early evening at the bar; you haven't been there since the time you all piled into the back of a cab simply to ride three blocks through the Rainbow march, but this kind of bar never changes. She already knows the bartender, he refills your glasses on the sly every time he passes and you just giggle in return. Complain about how the stranger droned on about himself but then proceed to do the same yourself, an inevitable game of passing it forward. You vow to do better, as the New York night steams around you. There's a dance party in Washington Square Park, you love the city to no end.

The summer is still wild in its prime, steaming streets and Instagrammable adventures. In a small corner in the East Village, my tan fades and forgets itself. 

The story that grows in its wake will be worth it in the end.