Monday morning I wake up late, of course. Shower, change, drink, and forget to eat before I dash out the door. I take the 7 to 42nd-Bryant Park and get off. I Shuffle with the herd of suits and ties out into the morning sunlight. Every day I walk the same, north-bound route to work. I pass the JP Morgan building and watch the financial gods blow jets of smoke out of their pursed lips from underneath the covered doorway. I pass a bunch of slow tourists. I also pass a homeless man with a sign that says "I listen to your problems, $2."
I pause at the corner of 5th and 46th at the sight of a bakery cart. The peddler stands in the tin box that has windows all along the bottom front and side, stocked with croissants, bagels, marble cake, and muffins. "How much for a cranberry muffin?" "One-fifty." I exchange my two dollars for two quarters that are lying in the change pile he keeps on the counter in front of him. He swipes a muffin off of the rack below him and hands it to me in a brown bag. The outside of the bag already has a grease stain on it. At least I know it's fresh.
I arrive at the office, muffin bag in hand and it turns out I've arrived early, so I fire up my computer, check my Facebook and Gmail, and eat my muffin. It is heavenly. The berries are still moist and the bread is just spongy enough. The light consistency makes it feel filling in my mouth. It took me three minutes to finish.
For the next three days I bought a muffin on my way to work and for the next three days it was consistently the highlight of my day.
No comments:
Post a Comment