Today in Brooklyn: I finally see the neighbours across the street, a young couple sharing a kiss on the fire escape, in the sun, in summer, in October. A truck is in traffic with crushed Toyotas layered like tiramisu. I try to take a photo but none of my phones are working; a beautiful girl smiles at me thinking I have taken said photo.
She definitely took the photo.
A black limo sirens up the wrong way up the street and meets a bus that is going nowhere. Construction men groan on the sidewalk: "I see this one go that way, and that one go this way."
Someone has planted fresh, innocent red Amaryllis in front of the site, which has asbestos warnings.
Ten policemen run into a small dentist office on the corner. Me and the two black men at the corner say "nope" aloud and turn away from the corner. The white people with strollers stare away, both curious and kvetching about parking.
I sit in a cafe, stealing wifi next to a photograph of a dog. I once kissed that dog, or should I say, he once kissed me. His name was Bosco. Below him are rusty red bongos; on the bar, a globe with Burma.
Another new bartender.
Less than three minutes of Brooklyn and anyone wonders why I can't leave.