Hours slip out of and back into the television. The Man in the High Castle still hasn’t finished The X-Files, but the dog needs food.
So we get dressed and I take the dog out, looking at New York with refreshed eyes and a new overlay of imagination. America still standing, the home of the free and brave. No fascist touch ups. No brown coats. Brooklyn black is the art scene here. Most of the Japanese in California are Hawaiian. No New Berlin. No neutral zones. No Marshall looking for me for the man I once was or the man my identity card says that I am.
And on the way home we get bagel sandwiches from the bagel shop that I’ve written about before. Such a crazy place. Always just the one guy with an incredible wait. He deserves good tips but when I try to add one to my receipt he tells me that they don’t do that there.