Morrie pants, as I look around at the towering trees. It’s quiet.
The wife beater clad teen yells obscenities at me. We’re standing on South Ave, he’s just approached me and asked to bum a cigarette. I tell him I don’t have one, after asking him to repeat what he said.
I took a drive up to Lake Ontario and the Port of Rochester. A storm was brewing.
I’m sitting uneasily on a stool of an unexpectedly cool brewery.
Very much like my relationship with Rochester, my relationship with coffee is complicated. I didn’t always like coffee, or find much use for it.
We went on a hike at Ganondagan today. I snapped a pic of Morris mid-sniff.
I took a walk around Rochester tonight (sans Morrie), stopping by Roc Brewing Co. for a drink and wandering around new favorite Hart’s Local Grocers.
I turn down the radio, and quickly glance between the passenger and driver seat.
Farmer’s Markets are more or less the same, but I still like to look at them.
A few years back, I was driving back to my apartment, phone in my lap. My Dad was on speaker.