We sat outside CTB, incognito, each wrapped in blankets and R’s face masked by her fedora —

R: It’s a “lady hat!”

— sipping our espressos, discussing the upcoming election, Proust, the human condition and Project Runway. R and R’s political discussions never seem to result in much r-and-r, and this instance was no different.

R: You don’t have to hold me down and spray Fantastik in my mouth every time.

R: That last time was an accident.