Exit 28B
Those steel-toe work safety boots that you envy. Not because you couldn’t afford them — of course you can get a pair any time. You envy them because he must wear them for work and all you must wear for work is a cheap suit you got on sale at M&S.
You order a flat-white with a home-made brownie. Totalling 7.69. It’s good to know the place is dog friendly, never mind you have two cats.
He and his mates have a table full of breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon and beans. Lots of beans. And he says, “Which way to Brooklyn?” Sounds like a punch line. The two mates crack up at the mention of Brooklyn.
“Which way to Brooklyn,” he repeats, welcomed by laughs this time too.
“Which way to Bee — Ar — Oh — Oh,” he begins to spell Brooklyn and stops short, not knowing how to proceed. “Whatever. Brooklyn! You get it?” More laughs.
His table gets served more food and the check, and you wonder how all this plays out in the grand scheme of things. And you come to realise that your life has always been about time. How to make time work for you, how to get ahead of the game. How to help you disappear, vanish and leave behind signs you specifically meant to be a reminder of you.
“Which way to Brooklyn?” you hear again and you try to mentally block the table next yours. You want none of it. Brooklyn shouldn’t exist. You once longed to be part of it, tried your best to adapt. But then the project fell flat on its face and you no longer wanted to be associated. Brooklyn’s a no-go. Your flat-white is half drunk, your brownie is untouched. The men at the neighbouring table get up and leave — you can hear the thud of their boots — and you, too, pay your bill.
