★ The northern sky had a rim of pale orange at dawn, and the orange stayed there well into daylight. Down in the construction pit, a big Deere excavator was turning over dark, damp earth below the dry tan surface. The sun glared through white-gray cover. When the air stirred, the cold hurt. By night, the chill had softened, but no one was noticing the weather at hand anymore. The Fairway was even by Fairway standards a seething, out-of-control mass of anxiety, sprinkled generously with a provoking, helpless passivity.
Friday, February 8th, 2013
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?