By the time you reach the bar, the rain has just started. The bartender is running around outside, setting up the curbside space and smiling at you with a sheepish grin. I got here late today, he admits before you've even said hi. There was a line at the door. You laugh - no one is ever at this bar as early as you, of course today is the day it happens. A woman sits right at the edge of your habitual corner. As the bartender pours your usual, you say, I guess it's a different corner for me today. He laughs. A little too awkward when there are so many tables to choose from? You adore the easy familiarity, this little nugget of home that you fought so hard to get back.
Earlier, on an east village stoop, she says, You know, Brooklyn isn't cheaper, between bites of her own fear. She isn't really talking to you, but to herself. You feel like you have one foot out the door. For a while I thought this neighborhood would be my final destination, but I should have known better. I have gathered enough moss.
Nothing is final until you die
or it dies in you.
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