★★ Yesterday's jacket, hanging in the coat closet, was still damp to the touch. Mist clung to the top of the glass tower across the avenue as the rain reluctantly lifted. The shower steam had nowhere to disperse to. Sun came on, in pulses. Wet discs of dog shit glazed the sidewalk under the scaffold outside the dog day-care center. The temperature reading was only in the mid-60s but the city had become an immense sweat gland. Jackets were coming off and being draped over arms. The glare began to hurt a little, despite the leaves having popped out. Puddles dwindled; now the clouds were like fish scales coming away under the knife. By early evening, the suffocating air had become simply soft and enveloping. "This day is just a hundred percent perfect," a young woman said, languidly and inaccurately, as she drifted down Prince Street. That moment of the day may have been. But there were the moments before it, and those that followed: stepping out into the night to hear rain just starting to patter on the trash bags. It was just enough of a shower to make a waiting taxi irresistible—and enough of one to destroy Google Maps' prediction that the taxi would be faster than a train to Brooklyn. Traffic crawled across the bridge, and the BQE down off to the right was a tangled strand of Christmas lights. The rain ended right before the taxi arrived. Outside the party, the cigarette smoke stayed right where the smokers had exhaled it.
Friday, May 2nd, 2014
45 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?