"I don't know where you're going," he says as we're leaving the market at the end of the day, "but my protip is to walk through the market."
This is perfectly logical: his way is a long block indoors, it's quite chilly out, and the wind whips off the Hudson and over the West Side Highway with vicious cold in its teeth to shriek down streets and buffet foolish pedestrians who choose to brave it.
But to follow him, admitting, essentially, that I hadn't really thought things through?
"I'm just gonna walk this way to clear my head," I say cheerfully, feeling the false smile cracking my chapped lips.
One year ago: Genetics
Two years ago: Mundane Mindfulness
Three years ago: Football Is Manly
Four years ago: Sometimes These Things Practically Write Themselves