Dry Roll

It's so late, I haven't got the time to put my lenses on, let alone make breakfast or stop to pick anything up. I grab a roll on my way out the door. It's not stale, but old enough to be dry on the palette and as I bite into it, on the elevator, I am infused with thirst. Unperturbed, I am done with the entire roll by the time I exit the building.

Under the scaffolding at 110 Bennett, I see one of my neighbors and he nods good morning. Behind me there is an Orthodox Jewish woman talking loudly into her phone, in Russian. Ruchama J. drives by in her sedan. She slows down to turn the corner, and waves when she sees me.

When I get onto the train a few minutes later I sit next to a pretty Latin girl in a black top with elbow length sleeves. She is wearing jeans, casual loafers, and hoop earrings, and her dark hair is pushed back into a pony tail. The roll I've devoured is just starting to digest and I can still smell the onion and garlic from the everything bagel she is eating. I am jealous of her coffee too, and debate, as I get closer to the office, if I'll risk the extra two minutes of tardiness it will take to get my own little latte.