a short story by Dina Di Maio
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There is a part of Barrow Street where the road not so much forks as curves and joins with another. At this juncture, there is a restaurant, a quaint, bricked place. Inside, there is a glow from candles and dim lights. There is noise of chatter. The restaurant is like that of an inn hidden in a cozy town in Europe. A small theater is a few doors away. Gorgeous homes flaunt impossible remodeled kitchens through open windows. This corner does not feel like New York and that is why I come here when I need to think. My mother once told me that when she was a child, she used to look through the windows of a restaurant on this street when she visited her aunt. I am almost positive it was not this restaurant but I understand the feeling she described to me as I pass this spot now. It is the feeling that reminds me that I am still in New York and I am curled within one of its secret spots.
