Having long ago blown through my reserves of breakfast fare, I was reduced this morning to a munch of schmancy bread with honey. After a desolate walk to work, a familiar figure offered his greetings and wished a work-from-home day upon me.
A lunchtime stroll to the river’s edge brought continuous reminders of the storm’s seriousness… burrito place closed… not more than three incredibly cute runners gracing the shore’s asphalt paths… occasional gusts that threatened to separate my hat from my head and deliver it a most grim fate. Imagining the slow death of woven thread, undoing itself alone in a gutter’s valley, its warming and kind shell turned to street mush as Sandy cackles and fades into vapor.
And the churning realization that the full extent of food at home was, I kid you not, two bottles of salad dressing and a left over Red Bull. Was I to hole up all hermit like and slurp balsamic until tomorrow’s flight to San Francisco? (It’s supposed to be San Antonio, but American Airlines seems to have confused its saints) The arduous trek (all 90 seconds of it) to Whole Foods dispelled all fears, for private enterprise does not take a break from peddling its upscale eatings.
Not my legs above.