Once Upon A Time In New York

The Great Disastrous Drinking Competition

The bar hummed with energy, the air thick with anticipation. Kaartik, always the daredevil, ordered a Negroni, while Raghav opted for a flaming Sambuca. Daamini, with a mischievous glint in her eye, requested a French 75. As the drinks arrived, the competition escalated. Siddhant's root beer float seemed tame in comparison, but he grinned, knowing he'd be the only one standing at the end of the night. The clock ticked away, and the music played on, a bluesy lament for lost time.

Emboldened by his earlier dance-off victory, Kaartik ordered a smoky mezcal. The drink swirled with memories of bonfires and distant lands. He leaned against the bar, eyes half-closed, lost in contemplation.  The sambuca flames had dimmed, but Raghav's poetic fervor remained. He switched to a robust red wine, swirling it in his glass like a mystic divining secret. His verses flowed—now melancholic, now whimsical—as he wove tales of star-crossed lovers and forgotten gods.  The French 75 had given way to a vibrant blue cocktail—a tropical elixir with an umbrella perched precariously. Daamini giggled, her words tripping over each other. She spoke of parallel universes, where anime characters danced with constellations. The bartender listened, bemused.

 As the drinks kicked in, the bar transformed into a kaleidoscope of laughter and blurred conversations. Kaartik, fueled by the bitter warmth of the Negroni, challenged everyone to a dance-off. His steps were a wild blend of flamenco and breakdance, and the crowd cheered, clinking their glasses.

Raghav, the sambuca flames still flickering in his eyes, leaned against the bar. He recited poetry—a mix of Shakespearean sonnets and dirty limericks—to anyone who'd listen. Daamini, her French 75 bubbles tickling her nose, swirled around the room like a tipsy tornado. She started to explain every anime she ever knew, episode by episode, she explained to him the complex lore of FNAF and talked about why she was depressed that she didn't have abs and claimed to be in a secret police group called "The Whispering Blades"  For some reason to the bartender who laughed and poured her another. 

Siddhant, now on his third root beer float, declared himself the "Float King." He stood on a barstool, arms outstretched, balancing precariously. The crowd held its breath, waiting for him to topple. But he didn't. Instead, he belted out a bluesy tune about lost love and missed chances, his voice surprisingly soulful. As the music swirled around them, Daamini's laughter faded into a steely resolve. She had noticed him—an unwelcome stranger who leered at her from across the room. His eyes lingered too long, his intentions clear. Daamini had no patience for such behavior.   

With a swift grace, she stepped toward him, her French 75 glass still in hand. The man's grin widened, thinking he'd found an easy target. But Daamini wasn't one to be trifled with. She leaned in, her voice low and dangerous. "Listen carefully," she said, her words slicing through the noise. "This is your warning." And then, without hesitation, she swung her fist—a comet of fury—connecting with the man's jaw. His surprise was evident as he stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby stool. The crowd gasped, Kaartik's dance moves forgotten, Raghav's poetry silenced. Siddhant's harmonica solo wavered. But Daamini stood tall, her eyes blazing. "No one," she declared, "disrespects me in my bar."

The man, nursing his bruised face, slunk away, defeated. Daamini returned to her spot, the French 75 now empty. The room erupted in applause. Kaartik fell out his stool in shock and laughter, Raghav recited an impromptu ode to her courage, and Siddhant played a triumphant note on his makeshift harmonica. But that wasn't the disaster, there's much more disaster to come.

Anyway, in that dimly lit bar, fueled by cocktails, nostalgia, and Daamini's righteous fury, they continued to dance, laugh, and share stories. The clock resumed its ticking, but time had shifted. It was no longer lost—it was theirs to reclaim. Outside, the rain began to fall—a syncopated rhythm on the windowpane. The music shifted from blues to swing, and the patrons swayed, lost in the beat. Kaartik spun Simran, who laughed as if she was equally drunk. Raghav recited a haiku about raindrops and regret. Siddhant, still on his stool, improvised a harmonica solo using a straw and an empty glass.  

Simran, nursing a delicate flute of sparkling water, observed her friends with a serene smile. The kaleidoscope of laughter and blurred conversations seemed to ripple around her, but she remained an island of calm. Her eyes held a hint of mystery, as if she saw more than the others—a silent observer of the human comedy unfolding. Samriddhi, now sipping a neon-blue cocktail adorned with a sparkler, was in her element. She flitted from group to group, sharing animated anecdotes and infectious laughter. Her eyes sparkled like the drink in her hand, and she pulled everyone into her orbit. The bartender had to refill her glass twice as she regaled him with tales of mythical creatures and misadventures.  Chetan, nursing a classic Old Fashioned, surveyed the scene with a mix of amusement and concern. His role as the group's unofficial caretaker kicked in. He discreetly reminded Daamini to drink water between her anime monologues and made sure she didn't teach the bartender how to commit arson and/or murder and frame someone rich and get away with it and/or also nuclear codes, he kept an eye on Kaartik's wild dance moves. When Raghav's poetic ramblings veered into PG-13 territory, Chetan cleared his throat, signaling a gentle shift in conversation.

As the clock lost its grip on the night, Daamini whispered to the rain outside, "Stay a little longer. Let us savor this." And for a while, time obliged. It slowed, stretched, and wove itself into the fabric of their shared experience—a tapestry of laughter, longing, and the magic that happens when souls collide.

And so they danced, these four wanderers, their hearts beating in sync with the blues. Daamini, the enigma at the center of it all, swirled through the room, in that extraordinarily lit bar, fueled by cocktails and nostalgia, they danced, laughed, and shared stories until the sun peeked through the rainclouds. The clock had lost its grip on time, and for a few hours, they were suspended—four souls caught in the sweet, intoxicating melody of the night.