Brooklyn pick-up artists.

The young woman climbs the stairs from the subway and lights a cigarette.
The young man walks up to the young woman.
“Hey, if you don’t mind, do you have a cigarette to spare?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” He gives her a confident grin.
“Your barn door is open?”
The grin disappears. “Excuse me?”
She holds out the cigarette like a magic wand. “Your fly is down.”
He takes the smoke. “Oh. Excellent.”
Meanwhile, I am standing less than three feet away, watching them like a television screen, holding the leash of a dog who is urinating on an empty plastic bag.

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