This weekend, it went like this: I am stirring my iced latte that's become top heavy with water. I hear a voice, words, directed toward me. If I don't look up, it never happened. But I feel eyes fixed on me, so I do. He's staring right at me.
"Sorry?" I ask.
"What. Are. You. Reading?"
I look at the unmistakable Miller Text Roman font of his New Yorker, and immediately put my hand over a picture and flip to the cover.
"New York magazine." I show him the cover, so it's true.
"But, what article?"
There's no getting out of it. I flip back.
"It's about . . . It's about Oprah."
I flip the page and keep reading. He leaves, and I realize he was trying to talk to me. I notice he's tall and dressed well and reads at a least a college-sophomore level, and I realize it's too late. I feel like Liz Lemon. This would totally happen to Liz Lemon! Only she'd have Jack tell her what to do.
Source: Flickr User Ed Yourdon