11/20/22
Cat sitting in Brooklyn over the weekend.
Walking past Brownstones in the sharp November air, feeling the breeze in the sleeve of my sweater, goosebumps prickling up all along my arms. It’s contradictory but the chill air thaws something in me. Last evening I held a cup of coffee in my gloved hands and felt the heat all the way up in my heart, and I wanted to marry this neighborhood.
I walked alone to the coffee shop in the morning and a boy sat across from me, that quintessential New York hipster in circular glasses scribbling onto a notepad, maybe writing poetry or sketching a novel. I thought, yeah, what else would you do in a coffee shop in Brooklyn (a lot of other things, I know, but humor me). I felt him watching me as I wrapped myself up in my hat and gloves to leave and wondered if 1) he was in love with me or 2) my movements were disruptive. I like the romantic option, but I know that my reality is far too practical, so I look the other way and pretend it’s possible to be desired.
Sunlight speckled through golden leaves during my walk, backlit like the gates of Heaven. I wandered into a small thrift store, the kind where everything was a minimum of $25 (I guess one of those second hand places where the upper class will shop to be sustainable, or to cosplay being poor). The second place was more affordable. I deliberated for over an hour just to buy one jacket, and the world was already consumed in the early winter dark by the time I left.
Walking back to the apartment I thought, I can’t believe this is my life, because who else gets to casually spend a weekend in a historic old Brooklyn brownstone for free. With people rushing by, bundled up in layers, and soft white light spilling from the store fronts, I felt a sense of community, and I felt inspired. Anyway, the truth is I hate shivering, chattering teeth, dripping sinuses, but something in me loves the cold. And I forgot my diary, so I will send my little love letter of a weekend in Brooklyn out into the void.
