Alone, on a curb in New York City, sat a man. He had nicely combed, sandy blond hair, although there was a portion sticking up to the right. He wore a suit, and couldn't be older than 20. He was alone, aside from the staggering drunks, police officers, and couples coming home, eager to get laid after a long night of partying, who would occasionally walk down the streets. And of course, the taxis. But this man wasn't attempting to hail one, or even get home. He seemed perfectly content sitting on the curb. Although "content" was not exactly how one would describe this man. "Lost in thought" would be a better way of putting it. he was in no way homeless or an alcoholic, but the few people on the street seemed to so, shooting him dirty looks, one woman going so far as to throw a dime in his direction. But he disregarded it, still thinking. And what was he thinking about?
Across the ocean in a pub in London, sat another man. This man had messy, uncombed blond hair, although his most distinguishing feature was his eyebrows. He was also wearing a suit, his being a bit more professional and proper-looking. He sat, or more collapsed, on a barstool, head in his arms, and generally, depressed. He was one of the few left, seeing as it was almost morning. The pretty young bartender poked him, checking to see if he was passed out. He wasn't, of course, he simply chose not to respond. She left him alone, assuming he would wake up later with what would seem like the worst hangover ever experienced, and limp home. But no, he was lost in his alcohol-induced thoughts, over his current life, his past, anything and anyone that might cause him to feel sad in any way. But somehow, he held in his tears. His reputation, or what was left of it, would be destroyed if he was seen crying. Not like it hadn't happened before, but then, he was with a friend. 'A friend who is now gone' he thought, causing a small tear to form, despite his effort not to.