¶ Somehow, Kathleen got through the entire afternoon on two crumb donuts. I had a bowl of cereal also. I was starving before Kathleen even left for Mass.

While she was gone, I worked up some pizza dough. But we never got to pizza. We consumed instead a tub of Fairway guacamole and about half a bag of Xochitl Totopos de Maiz. Kathleen drank two tall Arnold Palmers. We were stuffed. 

We enjoyed this extended appetizer on the balcony. It was very warm when we stepped out — shockingly so, coming from the cold air inside — but it got pleasant very quickly, whether because it actually cooled off or we acclimated. It was probably the breeze. The balcony is almost always caressed by a breeze. I think I know why, but it would be tedious to explain — something to do with the fact that the garage downstairs extends about twenty feet beyond the building’s upper floors, on both 86th and 87th Street, creating a mid-block canyon.

While we munched on the chips, we stared at the patch of blue sky to the north and watched an unaccountable number of smallish jets fly up toward the Bronx. Where were they going to land? Westchester Airport? Unless something has changed, Westchester doesn’t handle that much traffic — the posh neighbors won’t allow it. Stewart Airport, up in Rockland County, seems far away — unless passengers debouch onto helicopters. We live directly beneath a helicopter flight path, crossing from east to west. We can’t see them, because they’re directly overhead. We can certainly hear them. 

Where is everybody coming from? 

It’s a Sunday-night thing. 

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