"Mail for you," our roommate sings, tossing the envelopes on the table.
"For me?" I exclaim in mock-delight.
"Well, mostly for Katie."
"This one says 'New York Resident,' so that's me," picking up one of the envelopes and waving it at him.
Nulla dies sine linea. Four sentences every day. About whatever happened that day. Most of it's even true. Written by Scott Lee Williams
"Mail for you," our roommate sings, tossing the envelopes on the table.
"For me?" I exclaim in mock-delight.
"Well, mostly for Katie."
"This one says 'New York Resident,' so that's me," picking up one of the envelopes and waving it at him.
After a fight on the subway between an unmasked idiot and an idiot wearing only a face-shield escalates into one of the idiots pulling the emergency brake not once, but twice....
And after I sprint to the other side of the Atlantic Avenue Station to try and catch a different train (since the one I was on was stuck in the station while the police came to investigate the maskless idiot fight), only to realize that I left my shoes for work back on the train I had originally been on....
And after walking all the way to the East River in Manhattan in the rain, waiting in three lines for a couple hours, and signing a ton of paperwork....
I finally got my first Covid-19 vaccination shot today!
A man sits on the base of a statue playing guitar, with a jar filled with dollar bills in front of him on the wet pavement. Listening in a half-circle around him are children and their mothers - the children playing with one another, the mothers chatting - while he plays and sings, mellow tunes on an unseasonably warm day.
Groups of people walk by, their boots muddy from the melting snow, and dogs on leashes, their bellies muddy too, kids on scooters and teenagers laughing, out enjoying an afternoon, and, aside from the masks, it could be any day in early spring.
“It almost feels normal,” I say to Katie, and she tilts her smiling face up into the sun.