"So I stopped by the bar, and Alex was there!" she says in a thick Brooklyn accent. Behind her, fireworks explode in fiery blossoms of gold and red, shimmering purple and glittering blue, beneath a giant moon hanging fat and full over Coney Island.
"I said, 'Oh shit, I'm gonna have to drink,'" she says, shaking her head. Miniature suns burst into being and fade in an instant above us; she doesn't look up, or even turn around.
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