midnight motorway noises
12 June 2007
sunday afternoon
In the Revolution Cafe, a five piece band is playing klezmer as our table wobbles and I sip my coffee and write.
The wind is causing chaos among the pages of the Chronicle. My friend here folds and flips it, folds and flips it, in an attempt to minimise the obstacle. She clambers through it, pushing it against the pesky breeze, catching the corners before they get the chance to escape and pull their page away and off down 22nd Street.
On the dark red walls are paintings and menu boards and outside people stand looking in at the band, nodding occaisionally to the thumb of the bass drum. My friend takes advantage of a respite in the wind to fold and flip the Chronicle one more time before our hummous and pitta arrive.
The wind is causing chaos among the pages of the Chronicle. My friend here folds and flips it, folds and flips it, in an attempt to minimise the obstacle. She clambers through it, pushing it against the pesky breeze, catching the corners before they get the chance to escape and pull their page away and off down 22nd Street.
On the dark red walls are paintings and menu boards and outside people stand looking in at the band, nodding occaisionally to the thumb of the bass drum. My friend takes advantage of a respite in the wind to fold and flip the Chronicle one more time before our hummous and pitta arrive.
