The B32 is stuck on Franklin. It shouldn’t be at this hour but it is so I get off a stop early and walk across the street where the Hawaiian is finishing up her shift just before happy hour.
"Okay if I sit at the bar?"
The second stool from the cash register is a seat that did not exist three years ago. Before they remodeled the place, the bar ran parallel to the front windows and then made a quick jag to the right, just enough to fit two seats facing the clock on the wall.
The bus. The bus is why I’m in here. Not poached eggs and hash. It’s the bus.
I used to hate runny eggs. But a couple years ago I pretended not to mind and now I order them sometimes.
The windows facing Franklin Street — if I stare long enough at one of them, I can see a girl drinking a mimosa during brunch. If I listen long enough, I can hear the musician talking about a French-Canadian a couple hours before his next Pete’s Candy Store gig.
Was not expecting the broccoli. Blame the bus.
A few days ago I was talking to a friend of a friend who could not remember where we had first met. (It was Tribeca, four years ago.) But since she couldn’t remember, I decided to pick a different place and a different time.
"Oh, right," she confirmed. "I knew it was something like that."
I order toast. To sop up these runny eggs, the ones I used to not like.
If the bus had not been stuck on Franklin, I would not be in here with excess parboiled broccoli and the fragments left in this room.
As my plate is bused away, I look at the fingers of my left hand and try to remember how it goes.
Greasy Greens — it’s in G. That sort of makes sense.