★★ Sun and salt had melted the middle of the sidewalk to wet pavement. A dogwalker was headed south behind Trumpville with a small client cradled in his arms, explaining into his hands-free phone that there was too much salt for the dog to walk through. The toddler's feet left salt on the chest of the parka after he had demanded a shoulder ride home from preschool. The inmost ridge of remaining slush by the curb was uninterrupted dog-piss yellow for yards. Broken ice crawled downriver in one distinct band, like a third lane of traffic along the elevated highway. In the afternoon, the light was bouncy.
Thursday, January 30th, 2014
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?