Soliciting food, the cat butts its head against my shins. Under the table its eyes glow, beseeching.
The lake in Central Park isn't as large as it seems to us. From where we sit it seems to spread out for many blocks, disappearing in a bend beyond the bright trees and sliding away past the Bow Bridge.
Fifteen minutes of people-watching from inside a coffee shop. The large window shows a rainy street, umbrellas writhing and jerking in the wind, people swimming through the rain and flopping breathless into the shop.
After tea and a warm shower, I slip into the large comfortable bed and lie awake for several minutes as the room seems to hum around me.
At the walk-in flu shot clinic there are three tables set up, each with a nurse. As I fill out the forms, I hear a startled "Owww!" from a lady at the first table. Maybe she's sensitive, I think uneasily. The next woman who goes there clenches her fists as her face crumples in agony. A man follows her and bites down on his lip until it bleeds. My companion notices the nurse's technique: a swooping sideways thrust that seems to go for the bone. When the guy organizing the clinic tries to nudge us towards the stab-happy nurse, we plant ourselves next to the other tables instead.
I look for a pair of glasses that are unobtrusive, that don't leap out of my face in brash designs or completely alter the shape of my eyes. Good glasses shouldn't call attention to themselves. But that also means they're more difficult to find on the shelves, among the showier models.
Dinner guests mixing together are a kind of recipe as well; each person is a different ingredient with his or her own flavor. Unusual combinations can prove delicious. (And yes, I sound like Hannibal Lecter.)