These days, the inside of JetBlue resembled a rough around the edges backstage more than a club. At about 2AM, it reaches that perfect hue of its namesake; just enough haze from the choir of Parliament smokers has settled above the bar to tinge the unfinished concrete walls one shade to completion. Years ago, this place used to bounce and have a bit less apathy on a Saturday night. Nowadays, JetBlue was only filled with two types: the mundane regulars enjoying Brugal 1888 (neat) in dark linen blazers or the mundane visitors, on the regular bar crawl down the grid. The latter bemoan the music out of earshot, talk about getting a martini at the bar, before leaving for Midori on 74th. All within the span of five minutes. It’s a sort of regularity that syncs quite well with increasing our respective tabs via another drink.
As of late, we would lament how uncertain it has become that JetBlue would shutter its doors. The liquor collection was unreplenished, there was a halfhearted attempt at removing all the Patrick Nagel’s off the walls; no one was fooled with these developments This night though, an old friend glided through the doors of JetBlue at 2 am. It may well have been years since she graced our smokey hovel and the gravity of it was certainly felt. I shot a glance, paired with a smile, in her direction as she approached the bar. Her cigarette had been lit well in advance; between that and her floppy sanguine hat, her visage was as much a mystery as the future of JetBlue.
I ordered a round for the crowd at the bar, almost assuredly emptying the Brugal 1888 for at least tonight. Something of a magisterial smirk crossed her lips, before her cigarette returned to render her anonymous. With drink in hand, I momentarily debate a toast for the mundane regulars but I know better in the end.
It really wouldn’t fit the profile of JetBlue at all.
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