After an event sparsely attended but with a number of uplifting compliments on my violin, I want eggs and toast. Both a treat and a way to not wake my sleeping Abuelita by messing around in the kitchen that is smack center of our railroad apartment. Times Square Diner isn’t actually in Times Square, but at this hour, with it’s loud working girls on break and careworn long-timers nursing themselves through whatever it is the night is bringing them, it’s more TS in spirit than the sea of costumed Elmos and Naked Cowboys populating that actual patch of real estate.Amidst it all a squeaky clean tourist family occupies one booth, all blonde, all ruddy cheeked and tan and husky. The dad, who has a pink cardigan tied over his shoulders, cannot look away from me and Eric, spiky, tattered black minidress deviant glory. We may as well have a postcard caption under us that reads WELCOME TO NYC or some such crap.
Needless to say we can barely contain our tight lipped laughter.
Eventually they finish their meal and make their way back to their hotel. We finished ours and are putting on our jackets when the door swings open. Tourist dad is back, this time in alone and in a more nondescript grey sweatshirt and hooded raincoat. He sits uneasily at the nearby counter.