Sunday

I have a ritual. Every weekend I take the train to a neighborhood I love and work my way down its main street.

I start at the design shop, dipping fingers into bright white tubs of Swedish pomade and thumbing through art books. I duck into the perfumery, the menswear boutique, the pop-up shops. I try not to stare at the glamorous old ladies in perfectly-applied lipstick sipping alone under cafe canopies (it is very hard not to stare). I stop in the pretty travel bookstore— the one everyone takes pictures of— and request a recommendation for the next week’s read.

Yesterday, damp from the rain and grouchy after finishing a book I hated, I asked for the literary equivalent of comfort food. The shopgirl excitedly pushed a copy of a newly-translated Italian novel into my open palms. Feeling hopeful and celebratory, I walked to the bakery on the corner and pretended to look at salmon salads while sneaking samples of sliced and oozing cinnamon rolls from the counter. The brown sugar was hot and grainy on my tongue.