Still

Last night, like most nights, I popped into our bodega for some beer. Calling it ours has become a natural thing to do; most New Yorkers have a convenience store that they call their own, chosen most often on the merits of it's proximity to one's apartment. Ours is not half a block from our building's door, and consequently I rarely have a reason not to flip-flop my way through theirs, dropping too many bills on an inner-city six-pack.

Last night, I stepped into the store, through that door (now tied back and perpetually open, celebrating the recent warmth) and walked past the cans and Coors in the cooler. I walked my comfortable path towards the freezer they keep in the back, stocked with beer kept at 33 degrees. These bottles (Corona, Heineken and Presidente (the only imports)), though free to buy, are tucked away for a reason; preserved for the locals that socialize within the establishment, drinking on sunny afternoons.

Last night, after lifting the heavy lid of the cold chest, I leaned in to select 6 frosty green ones. They were not well stocked, so I was in up to my armpits, my cheeks feeling the chill. As my heels left the floor so that my fingertips could dislodge the first bottle, my ears descended past the plane made by the lips of the freezer and the sounds of the bodega vanished. There were no horns, no flirting, nor arguing in informal Spanish, not the hum of the fridge itself. The air was so cold that it could not vibrate audibly. The quiet within the chest was pleasant (refreshing in a sleepy way), so I took my time selecting the next 5, already drunkenly thinking of physics.