Dunkin’ Donuts and late night incantations

Central Parl's Wollman Memorial Rink.

Central Parl’s Wollman Memorial Rink.

I had no idea what the time was as I sat in the 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts a couple of blocks away from the couch that waited for me in my friend’s flat in Harlem at the end of a long night out in Manhattan.

As I munched on a Boston Kreme and drank a cup of milk to try and mitigate the forthcoming hangover, the man sat next to me murmured aloud to himself as he read the Koran. I munched on as he read on, both happy in our little worlds.

Awaking not enough hours later, I shuffled off to the dry cleaners to get the suit lent by my friend cleaned before heading to a Latin American diner for some fine Colombian coffee and a mushroom omelette with fries as I tried to put my head back together.

The afternoon was spent with same friend taking me on a bicycle ride around the city, which was followed by another night out that finished back at the same Dunkin’ Donuts eating another Boston Kreme–along with the restorative glass of milk–next to the same guy reading his Koran.

Awaking later, I shuffled off to collect my friend’s suit.

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