Saturday Night’s Alright

Peter Nureyev did not frequent bars like the one he was in. His kind of bar was softly lit, shining on every surface, with quiet piano music playing in the background. The bartenders in his kind of bar were sharply dressed people with the posture of a ballerina, quietly calling him ‘sir’ as they filled his drink and he tipped them much higher than one should with pockets as shallow as his. In his kind of bar, he was playing a part, a man with more, a man with privilege, who could hand over a thousand creeds without his lungs burning with anxiety. A man who wore nothing more than an easy smile and an air of laissez-faire. This was not his kind of bar.