The Blue Stove

Wednesday 21 November 2012

It was three years ago now that she bundled up, father in tow, ambling along to 14th street. They hopped onto a silent L train, stood holding on to the poles, swinging about with the sudden movements as it curved it's way to Graham Ave. The city seemed peaceful, the L train much quieter this Wednesday evening than the hustle and bustle of Sunday's, with unique characters and outrageous outfits, on their way to the flea. No musicians stealing your attention, no groups of girls giggling and chatting, no couples that you're never too sure if they're long time lovers or random strangers that just met and began making out because that's the kind of odd shenanigans that took place there. It was just her and him and some scattered average joes, all heading to miscellaneous destinations.

And then they were up and off, her leading the way. They didn't talk much throughout the entire journey but it wasn't awkward. There were a thousand things they could have said but they didn't, for they were drinking in the moment. Always just half a step ahead she was filled with an excited pride. A warm bubbling of happiness. She was showing him her life. The kind of life reserved for Woody Allen or Nora Ephron movies. 

They stretched their legs along the Ave all the way to the Blue Stove. There was no Hayley there but it was just as she had described. As the door opened they were enveloped in the euphoric smell of baked goods. Pies to be precise. The $40 and pie exchanged hands and as they turned to leave, as quickly as they had arrived she overheard a couple ask if they could buy one. The cashier explained that the pies were made to order and were sold out. She smiled to herself with a deep sense of belonging. She had pre-ordered a pie for thanksgiving and she had taken the subway to Williamsburg to retrieve it. She was a native New Yorker now. And even if she couldn't fool a born and bred Brooklynite she was sure she'd convinced her father.