Thursday night at a rooftop bar. All the usual suspects are out. There’s a couple of bros in pastel Polos, obviously prowling and aware of their hyper-masculine charm. A group of women with froses who maybe came from another happy hour and are here until someone takes them home or they Uber home to microwaved pizza. Another group of women who are presumed married – or at least seriously coupled off – and will be leaving as soon as their check arrives.

There’s the co-eds who are just as eager to hook up within their group as they are with anyone else on this rooftop. Then then there’s the Baby Boomers floating around, perhaps divorced, more likely here to enjoy youthful charm and whatever musician the venue has booked for the evening.