The thing about announcing something ahead of time is following up with doing the thing you promised to do. So… Here's me being accountable! 

Below, as promised, is the first chapter of Perfect Manhattan. For those who are new or need a refresher, I explained what I am doing in the previous newsletter. You can catch up here. 

A note to longtime subscribers who think some of it sounds a bit familiar: It is. I wrote a version of that part of the story as a Valentine’s newsletter on my former Substack. All of what’s in that post really happened. For PM, some details have been changed for fictional purposes and flow. I used part of that original post. Hey, it’s my own intellectual property. 

For the record, the real date was even more awkward! AND it was raining buckets! 

But please note that aside from the inspiration for this part of the chapter, this is a work of fiction. The main character, and all characters, places, and events in this book are made up. Any references to real people and places (and drinks!) are fictionally represented but intentionally recognizable. 

Btw, I give you a free page, but to read the rest, I have now enabled a 7 day trial period in case you want to test it out. 

Ok, here goes! Gulp. (And don’t hold back. Please feel free to let me know what you think either by commenting in the form or replying directly to the email, which will be a private exchange.) 

Perfect Manhattan

Eve can always tell when Fiona is in one of her snits. The lights at Rosalie’s are brighter than usual and yacht rock is playing.

It’s her way of clearing out the tipsy daytime regulars and conserving pace before the dinner rush. She likes and gets along well with that crew, and they always tip accordingly, but sometimes it takes specific patience to engage with chatty people who have been drinking all afternoon.

They know the drill. Works every time. They’ll gladly be back tomorrow.

When Eve pulls up a stool, Christopher Cross’s “Ride Like the Wind” serenades a mostly empty bar that is remarkably lucent for past seven PM. She gestures toward the jukebox, and Fiona gives a perfunctory wave and a “sure, sure.” No further eye contact as pints are pulled for Nancy, who is serving new arrivals at a table in the back. By the time Michael McDonald chimes in “to make it to the border of Mexicoooo,” Eve’s mini playlist is ready.

There is always a thirty second lull as the juke—the kind that still plays CDs—reboots and overrides the house speaker system, which only the bar staff has access to. Meanwhile, the heavy oak door squeaks open and lets in a gentle whoosh of chilly, dusky evening air as traffic heads up Third Avenue.

Fiona is already on it. Before he can even lumber over to his usual corner stool by the service station, the sound of a metal bottle cap skipping on the bar top greets Lenny, a regular, adding its own tinny intro and percussive thrum to the crunchy opening riffs of David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.” The jangly guitar mixing with the silky “doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doos'' seems to rejuvenate the whole atmosphere, bouncing off the tin ceiling and the old oak fixtures, which are now coated with more spilled Guinness and the remnants of the bygone indoor smoking days than any original furniture varnish.

Lenny is one of the only people at the bar who doesn’t drink draught. He raises his bottle of beer toward Eve down the bar, signaling his approval. Fiona dims the lights a couple more notches, communicating hers.

This is not where Eve planned to be tonight.