The lines at the food truck rally in Grand Army Plaza (note: a "food truck rally" is this peculiarly early-21st century thing where a bunch of trucks equipped with mobile kitchens come together, like some gastrointestinal ent-moot, and people freak out and pay top dollar to eat stuff that they could probably make at home) are generally pretty chaotic, so the woman who came up could be forgiven for not knowing where the end of this particular line was.
Except the heavy-set guy in the backpack and thick-framed glasses thought he was the end of the line, when really it was me, so when he got all doe-eyed and let her go in front of him, he was cutting both of us. The sun was shining brightly, the sky hung blue and friendly way up there, and I had no place to go, so I let it slide.
Now, I'm not sure exactly what he was hoping for, but the look on backpack-guy's face when her boyfriend walked up and slid his arm around her waist to kiss her, well, that sour, disappointed look was the look of justice, my friends.
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