Wake up. Check for rain. No rain.
Debate if the varying shades of black in my black shorts, my black shirt, my black tights, and my black blazer are passable. Then I look at myself in the large round mirror of Jason’s bathroom and wonder if I’m getting Emo.
Walk over to Saturdays on a Saturday, listening to The Avett Brothers sing about Brooklyn. A girl, not the place.
Morgan is sitting on a wood bench.
We say hello and talk about the subway girl who busted her head open.
We talk about dim sum and I debate about what kind of coffee to have.
Whitney comes in. I see her dog first, not knowing it’s her dog but thinking it looks a lot like her dog.
It mists outside on Crosby Street. On cobblestone. On hair. Over fire escapes.
Mark talks about dance and donations.
More mist mist mist.
I look outside at the building across the street with slate blue shutters. I want to live there. Lenny Kravitz used to live up top, Morgan says. That doesn’t make me want to live there any less or any more. I am Kravitz neutral.
I drink my coffee with foamed soy milk.
Everyone weighs in on the newly discovered un-health benefits of soy.
I drink up because it tastes good and figure I will probably die because of something else and not this latte.
And we talk and we laugh and we watch dogs go by and Whitney kisses Morgan and I take pictures of Mark and I could live here, in this place, forever for the rest of my life. Here on Crosby Street with the gray mist engulfing Manhattan.