It’s 21 degrees outside, one of the coldest evenings of the year, and a frigid wind is whipping up Bleecker Street, scattering trash and making black plastic bags fly through the air like witches.
Oh! City of wonders: There in the window of Pinkberry’s late this Sunday evening sits a trio of friends, and they’re wolfing down the frozen yogurt.
Maybe they’re like takers of homeopathic medicines, irritating their bowels with cold yogurt to gird themselves for the even-colder outdoors. But what strikes me as I tack back and forth in the fierce wind, is how happy Edward Hopper would have been painting this bleak winter apparition.