Monday

Tonight I left work and walked to yoga in my python heels. I was carrying a leather tote plus two other bags––large, shiny cardboard-stiff boutique bags full of manuscript, Elle magazine, flats, yoga clothes, tupperware, and sneakers.

The brick buildings glowed in amber light. I was lulled by the easy click-clack rhythm of the heels; first gritty and stacatto, on cement; then, when I hit the West Village, drawling on slate. It was still 45 minutes till class.

I stopped at Miguelina on Bleecker and ran my fingers down the silk blouses: violet, ginger, aquamarine.

I strolled to Magnolia Bakery. I picked the cupcake with the largest icing crown: a huge helmet of lemon-colored sugarbutter with tiny pebble sprinkles, all perched on a little round of yellow cake. Two dollars, please.

I slipped 2 bags to the crook of my arm, squeezed the cupcake gingerly in a sheath of wax paper, and slowly crossed the street. I sat down on a green wood bench, my bags spreading out and nestling in on all sides. Dry leaves scudded over bricks and cement.

I peeled back the wax paper. A little icing was stuck to the paper. I combed my teeth over the spot and felt the sweetness dissolve between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

I leaned in and lopped off a chunk of icing and cake with my front teeth.

Mmmmmm.