You knew it was a lost cause, but nevertheless manufactured hope in a reality the District, for all its worldly influences, could never fulfill.
A wasp buzzed, pummeling itself against the window overlooking Dupont Circle. You used to drive a truck through that black hole after a few wrong turns, then regret it for the next ten minutes of painstaking navigation through clueless pedestrians and conniving traffic signals. At least that whip had a good sound system. Every job has its small sacrifices, and that one grew more insignificant with each moment you thought about your current task.
The opera playing from a public radio station seemingly mocked your hapless state, though you never had a way with such grand languages.
A lady in proper proportion to her two bullish dogs crossed Q Street in perfect timing with the oncoming traffic, which kindly enough let the trio pass. She kept on her way, you thought, but suddenly the dogs were tied beneath the intermittent green of D.C. sidewalks and the doorknob was turning, leaving enough time for several more civilians to survive the traffic before the door finally gave.
She entered.
You stared at the page.
She broke the silent eternity of a few seconds, declaring:
"The only reason I came in here was to get a smoothie."
You exhaled.
You knew it was a lost cause. But the smothered panini sandwich, the lentil soup served in the same paper cup as your cappuccino, and the smoothies - God help the fucking smoothies - mocked your premonition that D.C. would never proffer what New York stocked in abundance: a decent bakery.
