The Search

It was twenty degrees out and I was getting over a cold. So what? We shuffled through the dusting of snow to the coffee shop with its 24 hour blinking sign across 14th street and ordered coffee with our eggs. The coffee was sour and the eggs were runny. The pancake syrup had trouble spilling out onto the plate, so he did it for me. I was never good with syrup.

We set out west toward Union Square. After a stop in Guitar Center (I angled around the stairs and gave him space. No one likes to bring a girl into Guitar Center. No one.), we walked down toward K-Mart. There, in the basement, the toy aisle had a gaping space where the Scrabble sets once sat. I held back a gasp and a groan, and hoola-hooped. He feigned applause. You cannot kiss and hoola-hoop at the same time. It is impossible. Upstairs, we dressed up in ugly hats and plastic snowman handbags. I only took two photos.

We carried on into the cold, our lips bright cold, our noses numb. The comic store, of course, had no Scrabble, so we tried Barnes and Noble. The sets were new, and ugly, and our happiness was dashed with aesthetic disappointment. No matter. It was too cold to turn back, and $15 was a worthwhile price to end our search.

I went back to my apartment with my Scrabble. He went back to Brooklyn with his. We never ended up playing that day.

scrabble

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One response to “The Search

  1. Pingback: Letters « Subway Philosophy

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