The rain came like most things do: slowly, and then all at once. I was walking through Williamsburg on my way to meet a friend at her ceramics studio. (For the record, her ceramics rock.) And I’d almost made it when the true downpour began: the kind of summer storm that blows trash bins down the street and sets off car alarms. Of course I’d forgotten an umbrella. Of course I had no cell service. So when I passed a building with an arched marble awning overhanging a wide stone staircase about 30 seconds after the sky split open, I ducked beneath it and climbed the stairs to perch just outside the front door. With nothing to do but wait for the rain to stop, and 15 minutes to go until I could be considered late, I cracked my book. It was Lot by Bryan Washington, and I was almost finished.
Reading with strangers
Reading with strangers
Reading with strangers
The rain came like most things do: slowly, and then all at once. I was walking through Williamsburg on my way to meet a friend at her ceramics studio. (For the record, her ceramics rock.) And I’d almost made it when the true downpour began: the kind of summer storm that blows trash bins down the street and sets off car alarms. Of course I’d forgotten an umbrella. Of course I had no cell service. So when I passed a building with an arched marble awning overhanging a wide stone staircase about 30 seconds after the sky split open, I ducked beneath it and climbed the stairs to perch just outside the front door. With nothing to do but wait for the rain to stop, and 15 minutes to go until I could be considered late, I cracked my book. It was Lot by Bryan Washington, and I was almost finished.