She forgot that she was making a list. She takes the little flask out of the bag and lifts it to the light. There’s only about a quarter left. She thinks, wow, I am pretty lucid for a forty and six hundred milliliters of whiskey, and then she thinks, what was I thinking about? A list? And then she’s at the bottom of the bridge, waiting at the weird turny corner light. Oh, Williamsburg. There was a point when you seemed like a scary, tough neighborhood, but now it’s obvious that the graffiti on your walls gets put there by art students.
