My hair is wet and I'm running—late and again. I'm bee-lining to the Spring Street 6, green smoothie in hand, shifting my work backpack from one shoulder to another as I step around morning walkers lacking an urgency in their gait.
"Wanna take a bet," I record in a voice note to my friend as I clomp down my stairs, "on how long this line will be?"
"Six blocks?" she says in response—a hopeful lift in her voice—with the caveat that "blocks are longer in Williamsburg."
A flurry of texts I send her in real time:
"Okay I'm seeing a line"
"But I'm on the block"
"God I really need coffee"
"People on their laptops on the ground lmao"
"Lawn chairs"
"Okay we're turning"
"Okay we're wrapped around an entire city block"
It's 9:39 a.m. when I find the end of the line. |
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