There is big smoke churning out of the chimney I can see through this window, stuck on top of one of the buildings with their backs to us, on Bergen Street. While we were sleeping snow fell in polite amounts and the sky that shook it out is grey, thick, cold. I am drinking coffee and reading art theory, listening to the radiator hiss violently and wishing that it could be a day of great pleasantness and scholarship inside, on my couch, where Olive can bite my feet and I can eat noodles whenever I’d like.
She’s zonked. Me too.