The first summer I was officially an adult (college: check; job: check), I had a cute little apartment in New Haven, which was conveniently located over a pizza parlor (the smell…heaven!). I had a cute and low-paying job writing copy for private school brochures. I’d ride my bike to work, chat with my coworkers, play with my boss’s tiny dog, a Cairn terrier named Pica. At 5:00, I’d go back home, riding my sturdy Ross 10-speed through the pretty residential neighborhoods, cruising through the park, past kissing couples and frolicking children.
Then I’d come home and wonder what to do for the evening. I didn’t have too many friends yet, and I lived alone, which I loved. I’d sit in the window over the street, sipping a glass of very cheap wine, watching people come and go. Occasionally, a patron wouldn’t pick up an order, and the guys from below would come out on the street and bellow up, “Kris! You wanna pizza?” I loved them, of course.
I didn’t have a TV, nor an air conditioner, nor enough money to go to the movies very often, so most of my summer nights were spent lying languidly on my couch, chewing ice cubes to combat the heat, reading. Someday, I thought, I might write a book of my own, but back then, it was enough to just sit back, watch and enjoy.