Sometimes I resent my self-acceptance.
It’s Sunday morning and I’m at city bakery listening to “Piano Ballads” on Spotify. It’s unusually quiet here in contrast to the typical Manhattanite brunch-rush. There’s a trio of neon yoga gear-clad women sharing a confectioner’s sugar-dusted muffin in the corner, and one other MacBook-sheltered freelancer who’s been texting for the past nine minutes. I wonder if he knows about iMessage for his computer.