Butternut squash—fuck off. It’s May again.
Well, not really. But it was 71 degrees in New York today, and the temperature provided a much needed timewarp to six months ago or six months from now. It is a change of perspective worth embracing. Consider it a temporary lift of an escalating siege: one that threatens to keep us shut in our apartments until March at the least.
So while the weather holds, behave like it’s May. Forgo huddling around a simmering stew for barbecue on the roof. If you are a smoker, spend three days smoking not to warm your chest, but because your skin is warm. And anyone gearing up for a relationship, take the opportunity for a Spring fling—born from an excess of joy imbued by an excess of sun—instead of December’s typical desperate search for body heat. For now sex can be more than just a hot water bottle.
For lunch yesterday I grabbed a bacon cheeseburger from the deli on First Ave and Tenth. I’ve been eating these for about a year, since they were recommended by a bartender at International for having a “better than average bacon cheeseburger.” (Anyone who’s been reading this for a while knows that better-than-average is as small a target as I aim for.) I strolled there in short sleeves, but with a sweater in my bag. Last Tuesday, in the midst of a frigid shower, the burger alone cost $6. Yesterday, for the same price, they threw in a better-than-average ginger ale and better-than-average French fries, I suppose in celebration of the sunshine.
I toted my bounty to Stuyvesant Square, which is remarkably empty on the nicest afternoons, and encamped on a bench next to an old lady. It was 3 o’clock. I scarfed for fifteen minutes, read for six, and napped for two. When I woke the sun had gone, and I was shivering in the shade, a reminder that summer’s cameos are even shorter than the season itself. I put my sunglasses back on anyway. Around then, the old lady farted.
