Prosciutto, fiore di Sardo cheese and brioche hot dog buns from Stinky; sausages and Brillat Savarin camembert from the Union Market; mustard and melon from Trader Joe's (may-its- interminable-check-out-line-rest-in-peace, and what do they MEAN by saying 'our milk only travels three days to market.' Three days??? What's your point?); bread and butter pickles - too sweet - from the roof farm's cucumbers; enameled tin plates from i) sidewalk give away ii) Met Museum shop iii) Pearl Trading Company. Glasses are from Crate and Barrel; wine from Heights Chateau.
View over the silvertop and harbour. The cat joined us, loudly, without his shirt (it makes him less agile). The watermelons guarded our left flank - there are now six. I'm not sure how the cucumbers would be in a crisis.
Going to the roof is like a little holiday. It's not the terrace, all lush and familiar. It's a little wild and primitive, yet urbanly familiar, in the company of satellite dishes and chimneys, and fresh with a wind from the water. Our thoughts stray farther than usual, over the water, to the lights crossing the bay and heading up the East River, or farther, to other waterways and other lights, and other possible lives waiting to be lived.