Brunch with Hannah and some People

Brunch with Hannah and some People felt like one of those small city mornings where time loosens its grip.

The table was crowded in the best way—eggs Benedict resting on a bed of greens, a plate of fruit and toast dusted with sweetness, ribbons of prosciutto beside melon, and a sweating plastic cup of iced coffee that kept turning my hands cold. A glass of water caught the light and held it, clear and ordinary, like it was trying to be remembered.

NoLita can be loud if you let it, but from this seat it was softer. The kind of softness you notice when you stop talking for a second and just listen: forks against plates, chairs shifting, the low pulse of the street outside. One world pushing up against another.

I like meals like this because they don’t ask for anything dramatic. Just the simple proof that people showed up. That we sat close, passed plates, and made space for one another in between sips and bites.

When we finally stood to leave, the food was gone and the chatter kept going—spilling out the door with us, back into the day.