Limbo City

Yesterday, we spent an entire afternoon in Housing Works Bookstore and Café, browsing. I watched Elizabeth drink her hot chocolate and pointed out books that changed my life lining the wall of “fiction.” I could feel every book I’d ever loved weighing us down into the ground.

A woman hogging the larger table beside us had her iPad out, switching between playing games and reading a book on her Kindle app. In her flowered dress, pink beads, and black bonnet, she was dressed for a 1950s garden party. Every time we opened our mouths, she gave us the stink eye. I couldn’t figure out why until I saw the pink beads, and the whole stuck-in-the-wrong-decade thing became clear. It must be hard living in the wrong time period, pretending SoHo is a Parisian Plaza. Her flats had black bows on them, and she ordered a grilled cheese with Vermont white cheddar and Dijon mustard. She asked for “no mustard,” but the sandwiches were premade, so she settled for a straw in her can of Blue Ribbon.

On our way out, the woman behind the register complimented my glasses and asked us if we wanted to take a free condom. This is how I came to the conclusion that New York City is some sort of limbo between the real world and a hipster alternate universe.