Monday arrived with the specific energy of the day after something significant.
The West Village opening had been everything I had built toward for two years and the morning after it I woke at five with the particular feeling of someone who had been running hard toward a finish line and crossed it and was now standing on the other side discovering that the world on this side looked remarkably similar to the world on the other side, except that something fundamental had shifted.
I had built the thing.
The thing was built.
Now there were six days.
I was at Cobble Hill by five-thirty.
Not because there was an emergency — the opening had gone well, the wholesale orders were on schedule, Maya was handling the West Village morning with the competent ease of someone who had needed exactly o
