The other Friday night the three of us headed down to 79th Street to have dinner at Shake Shack. It was a cold night on the Upper West Side, the kind of night that reminds me of my first year in the city, when I would walk down to the Loews theatre on 68th Street to watch movies by myself on Saturday nights. It's the feeling of being wrapped up in a hat and scarf, carrying a book, and knowing you have everything you could need for the moment.
Shake Shack was its usual riot of children and strollers, but we were
able to find a table by the wall-length windows. The glass was cold and
dark to our touch, but we were warm and comfortable. The food was
delicious. Afterwards we walked eastward back towards the train. Alice
acquiesced to wearing her hat and mittens, and we made our way by
playing "One-two-three-RUN," in which the family counts to three and
then runs for a bit. She was flushed and beautiful. I carried two
half-drunk milkshakes in my hands. It was a good night.