I Don’t Make Them Up

September 5, 2005

Morgan, an Australian blogger, is in New York for a few months, working on her PhD. She emailed me last week to see if I'd like to meet for a drink. Sure, I told her, and we arranged to meet on Friday night, near where she’s staying in Manhattan.

Morgan had never been to Williamsburg before, so, after a while, we took the subway to Bedford Avenue. As soon as we got off, Morgan was struck by how young and hip everyone appeared to be. "Is there a college in the neighborhood?" she asked.

"No."

We strolled along Bedford Avenue, peeking into the various boutiques, bars, and restaurants. "People sometimes comment on my photographs," I said, pointing to the detritus lining the street. "But look around. It's so easy to find things to take pictures of here."

"I know," she said. "I was just thinking that."

"What do you feel like eating?" I asked, hoping to get a clue that might help whittle down the options.

"Oh, I like anything, really," she said.

With millions of restaurants to choose from, my brain usually freezes when trying to decide where to go — I stop thinking altogether, the way I used to do in Math class, hoping that if I'm quiet long enough, the whole question will disappear. But I was suddenly hit with an unusual burst of inspiration and suggested we go to Relish Diner, where we could sit outside.

"Sounds good," said Morgan.

Our waitress was a slip of a girl in a short skirt, spindly legs, and a round, doll-like head. Straight black bangs fell into her eyes, each of which was three times as wide as her tiny mouth. She told us about the specials.

"She's adorable," Morgan whispered when the waitress had walked away.

"Yeah," I said. "I don't make these girls up, you know."