To Arthur, they were a blur of faces, the "great unwashed" whose only purpose was to provide the background noise to his more refined life. He watched a young woman in a faded jacket laugh as she shared a bag of chips with a friend. He felt a flicker of something—not pity, but a distant, clinical curiosity. How did they manage? he wondered, clutching his crystal flute. How did one find joy in the common horde? .
"Need a hand, friend?" the man asked, his voice rough but kind. hoi polloi
The velvet rope didn’t just separate the club from the sidewalk; it divided two different species. To Arthur, they were a blur of faces,
Later that night, Arthur’s car broke down on a desolate stretch of road far from the shimmering lights of the ballroom. As he stood by his smoking engine, a rusted truck pulled over. Out stepped a man in grease-stained overalls—one of the very people Arthur had looked down upon just hours before. How did they manage
