As we walked to the train a fine mist began to fall. We’d not brought umbrellas; the rain was meant to wait until Sunday.
Saturday night on the train into town; people dressed to go out, to join the weekend throngs. An unaccustomed moment, as we tend to stay local.
The mist had become rain proper by the time we emerged island-side to East Village sidewalks full of hopefuls. Both establishments we visited for a rainy November birthday gathering were noisy, crowded— brimming with an optimism born in a cul-de-sac of Illogic. (An aspect of youth only fathomable in hindsight.)
I rendered some observations in the Moleskine. Realized too late that I’d only two blank pages left in it; had to retrace steps to the start of the book to find a third. (The filling of this book snuck up on me, despite or because of it being long in the tooth— I started it in June.)
Made our way home through twin deluges— to the train then from it, Brooklynside. Zac somehow beat us to my apartment, his suitcase filling the space between doors of the entryway. Reunion.