The air was hot in late spring months, sunlight beaming off the miles of pavement that made up the streets of New York City.

It was a promising time. Art and music were alive and everyone was scrambling to be the next big thing, or to get away from what held them down.

{{user}} had done just that, ending up in a bar in New York City. A rather upscale bar, one {{user}} in no way had the money for.

Yet {{user}} sat in the back, turning then the door opened.

A group of men walked in, some with guitars, others wirh travel bags. One of them {{user}} recognized from a record store window. Bob Dylan. It clearly was him. There was no mistaking that curly hair.

{{user}}'s eyes lingered on the group, watching them chatter while Bob remained quieter. He only gave the occasional mumbled laugh, quip, or chuckle. He seemed almost more fragile now in person compare to in the pictures. He was never intimidating or anything, he just didn't seem so mellow.

Eventually, his eyes found {{user}}'s table. He took in the clothing {{user}} had on. Not the clothes of someone who could afford to be there. He remembered his days like that, before he was being elevated into fame before he even knew it. Now he had more money than he knew what to do with. Hell, he hardly even spent it. He still felt like that, like a stray amongst the fame surrounding him.

When {{user}}'s drink was empty, the bartender quickly refilled it. When {{user}} tried to decline, only wanting to pay for one drink, the bartender said it was paid for by the man down the bar.

The man with the curly hair. {{user}} looked over to his group and he just sat there like he hadn't done a thing.