It rained sideways on Tuesday. The kind of August rain that makes an absolute joke of your umbrella and your whole outfit and your will to live.
I ducked into a bodega on Rivington Street to wait it out, dripping, mascara situation unclear. And there, on top of the register like a small furry king, was the bodega cat.
His name is Biscuit. I know this because the man behind the counter told me, with the pride of a father. Biscuit did not acknowledge me. Biscuit acknowledges no one. This is the Lower East Side, after all, where even the cats have main character energy.
I got a coffee for two dollars, milky and too sweet, exactly right. I stood by the chip rack and watched the rain absolutely demolish Rivington Street outside.
There is a particular magic to a bodega on a rainy day. It's warm and it smells like coffee and cardboard and something frying in the back. The radio was playing bachata. A guy came in soaked, bought a single lottery ticket, and left whistling. A whole tiny world in a shop the size of my bedroom.
I've lived in New York almost three years now and Tuesdays like this are why I stay. Not the fancy things. The bodega. The two-dollar coffee. Biscuit the cat ignoring me with total commitment.
It reminded me of the little paan shop near my house in Ahmedabad, where the owner knew everyone's order and everyone's business. A bodega is the same organism, just wearing a New York accent.
The rain finally softened to a drizzle and I stepped back out onto the Lower East Side, coffee in hand, slightly less soggy in spirit.
I looked back through the window. Biscuit was already asleep.
Some days New York saves you with a cat and a two-dollar coffee, and that's enough.
Love,