Evelynn wasn’t kidding about the bottomless cup of coffee. I Am Legend is over there in her corner table, hunched over her laptop for almost the whole day, every now and again shooting a dirty look my way. But like I said, I’ve lived in New York City for fifteen years. If I can’t handle death ray eyes from some doe-eyed brunette, I deserve to have my MetroCard revoked.

By the way, even if she hadn’t told me, I’d have figured out she wasn’t from New York by virtue of her outfit. It’s the end of April and she’s in a tank top and shorts. We had a blizzard less than two weeks ago, which might—though really doesn’t—explain the combat boots. Although maybe it’s just her way of letting the world know she has a smoking hot bod but will also kick your ass if you stare too long. Which I can respect. Less obvious to decipher is the bizarre fingerless knit glove things that come up to her elbows and were clearly homemade by someone who was either drunk or gleefully looking to use the #nailedit hashtag. Wherever she’s from, it’s probably devoid of seasons and, let’s face it, culture. Maybe someplace utterly predictable, like Florida.

Whatever her story, I need to ignore her. Just like I need to ignore why I haven’t been to Café Crudité in six weeks. It’s not that this was exactly “our place,” mine and Jordan’s. But we used to go here sometimes, together, back when she lived around the corner with three roommates, back before we made the leap to cross a bridge and moved to a borough that didn’t start with “Man” and end with “holy hell, that’s how much you’re charging for this closet, but Jesus that is a nice terrace, I can fit a chair out there and have, like, outdoor space, where do I sign?”

I mean, we also made the leap to move in together, of course, but at the time, the Brooklyn thing seemed like the bigger deal. Sidenote: Last year Miles was such a douchebag.

And a moron. A goddamn romantic in this day and age—and at his age? Like it took him thirty-one years to realize that happily ever after literally belongs in a fairy tale. For children. As Gemma, the British girl I briefly dated before Jordan, used to say: what a nob.