November arrived the way it always did in New York — without apology.
One morning the air was crisp and manageable and the trees along Court Street still held their color, and the next morning you stepped outside and the wind had a different quality to it entirely, something serious and committed, and the city had shifted into its winter register without asking anyone's permission.
I had always loved November in Brooklyn.
I loved the way the light changed — lower and more golden, arriving at angles that made ordinary streets look considered, like someone had adjusted the contrast on the whole borough. I loved the way the bakery felt in November, warmer by comparison to outside, the smell of spiced things carrying further in cold air, the way customers came in slightly windswept and left
