“I’m building a birdhouse!”

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” is good,
crazy good. It's snow-on-your-face good, beach-in-the-winter good, yellow-lighting-’cause-you-turned-the-flash-off good.

After, traipsing around the Lower East Side in this blasted drizzle, looking for dinner. At Schiller’s, a two-hour wait for a table. Also at inoteca. Oh, how we laughed, bitterly. Then we fell into the Pink Pony, where there’s always a table free, and where the waitstaff always seems stoned out of their minds. An artichoke salad, a plate of salmon tartare, and a tarte tatin later, back out into the wet, but not before one cute indie-rock boy and I looked at each other, and then looked at each other again, and then, once Kat and I were outside, turned around and looked at each other again. What’s a girl to do? Go back in? Too obvious. It’s okay, move on, the Lower East Side is the natural habitat of the cute indie-rock boy.

In a now-calmer Schiller’s for a sit-down with Bellinis, Kat in new green puff-sleeve shirt and grey sweater, jeans, pointy shoes, me in grey pinstripe bias-cut dress with little red cardigan, pink socks, black round-toe Marc Jacobs knock-offs. We are cute girls, and we have lots to talk about, and we make each other laugh, and, yes, okay, we’ll take some of those crisp, salty fries.