Sunday, June 7, 2009

Early Risers

Aaaah, blessed Sunday morning. I woke up at 6 a.m. with stinging eyes, a light cough, a slight headache and a delightfully sore back, cuddled under my duvet, stressing softly over the work at hand today before my deadline tomorrow.

A little past 7 I dragged myself down to the deli to get pain killers, flirted for a while with the cold medicine on the shelf, but decided against it, hearing the voice in my head of a German doctor whom I once consulted on the subject who said: "Well, those medicines might be alright these days after they took out the stuff that gave young people strokes".
Better safe than sorry, I decided. Got the Advil instead.

At Ninth Street it was close to empty, only one customer and one barista, a girl who reminds me so much of Maggie Gyllenhall I always wind up feeling starstruck in her presence. She has a most flirty way of speaking, one word caressing the next, her sentences forming one lengthy hum-like drawl. She nearly made me blush when she asked me what I was doing up so early.
"I was thinking the same thing", I answered.

On my way back I thought how amazing Sunday mornings in the East Village are, and decided I should attempt to get up early on certain summer days, if nothing else, then just to have a jog in the middle of Avenue A.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen"
, a guy drunkenly proclaimed to his two friends with whom he was most likely heading homewards after a late night on the town. He raised his arms in the air, signaling for them to stop and listen to his epiphany: "If there is one thing that never changes about New York, it's that between 4 and 7 am, you own the streets".

Then they walked on, I walked home, stopped to look at a couple of rats who lazily stepped out of a trashcan after a heavy breakfast. They were each the size of a Chihuahua, only with much shorter legs.

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