We were going to Strokos, really, we were. We were agreed on it. We were walking there.
Then came the suggestion, the one you never think you’re going to hear: “Hey. Let’s go to Camille’s!” There was a moment of silence, either out of confusion or fear, possibly both. “Don’t we have to be in the mafia or something to go there?” “Is it even open?” “Uhhhhhhhhhh.”
